Life After Ike
by LitRaptor42
Summary: If the Radiant Dawn timeline continued without Ike, what would Soren do with himself? A story without supports. Two new chapters: Soren decides what to do next.
1. Prologue

This is a story about what happens when you don't properly A-support your units, folks. (But mostly about how I love Soren.)

The basic storyline will follow Soren after Radiant Dawn: it's semi-inspired by what I really think _would_ happen, and how I would want another Tellius-era Fire Emblem game to start.

* * *

~~ Prologue ~~

* * *

It was Titania who initially found him, of course. She was the mother of the mercenary troop, even to the children who only reluctantly belonged to the family, as evidenced by the fact that her affectionate attempts extended to Shinon. She was always making sure everyone was all right.

The base had never been more peaceful than in the last week. With no events in the surrounding autumn countryside, and no requests for aid in almost five days, some of the mercenaries—for example, Mia—were getting antsy. Rhys himself was enjoying the calm, the few thunderstorms that had passed through providing him with an excuse to linger indoors. He hadn't really had time for study in a long time, and had pulled out the majority of his old prayer books.

The mercenaries were all out on separate pursuits, some together and some alone; the base was silent except for the sound of rain dripping from the trees. He had just bolted the window and lit a candle, and was opening a book.

"_Rhys!_" His name was frantically shouted from upstairs, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, dropping the prayer book onto the floor. "Rhys, please!"

She said nothing else, gave no reason for the shaking of her voice, and Rhys felt a brief flutter of panic. He reached under his bed and plucked a healstaff from the pile, then took off running for the stairs.

He saw at once why she had called; Mist came bolting down the hallway and skidded to a halt, gasping in a little strangled shriek. Titania was frozen in front of Soren's door; Rhys felt a chill at the look on her face.

"Is it locked?" he asked, feeling his lips going numb. He tried to make himself think of all the other horrible injuries he'd treated—Kieran, plunging axes into his head—Mist, the first time she'd tried to swing a sword on horseback—even all the times Rhys had to heal his own wounds, inflicted by Mia—but nothing was helping. His stomach lurched.

"Yes," Titania said blankly, after a moment. Both women seemed stunned. "I think we'll have to break it down."

"I'm gonna get Boyd," Mist said abruptly, wiping a tear from her face. They watched her go, calling in her light voice for the fighter; Rhys heard him bellowing in the interrogative from the courtyard.

They were only alone for a moment together, but Rhys glanced into Titania's face. "I knew this was coming," she said softly, and he was grieved to see guilt reflected in her eyes.

"You couldn't have done anything," he said, knowing the words were useless.

Then Boyd was there, his axe in his hand, covered in sweat from training. He looked down and swallowed, pausing. The sensation of fear was palpable in the hallway, though there were only four of them.

"Just do it, Boyd!" Mist finally said, pleadingly, breaking the tension.

The fighter didn't hesitate any longer; they all stepped back as he adjusted his grip on the axe, raised it, and smashed it into the door. It was only a practice weapon, but obviously Boyd's apprehension had improved his accuracy. The door flew open with a single strike, the bolt clanking to the floor.

Titania wasted no time; she stood in the doorway before any of them had a single glance at the interior of the room. "Boyd, Mist, wait here." They made no argument, but stood aside; as he followed Titania into the room, Rhys saw Boyd put a hand on Mist's shoulder.

They knelt down next to Soren, curled up in a comma to one side of the door, eyes closed and face white. For a moment Rhys couldn't understand what had happened, and he gulped mightily to hold down the horror as he figured it out.

The mage had slashed one wrist with the knife, hard enough to sever the tendons; unable to hold it, he had braced the knife between his knees to draw the other wrist across the blade. The blood had pooled across the floor, a crimson river snaking past the door lintel and into the hallway.

The room was freezing, a chill breeze blowing through the window. "He's still alive," Titania said, almost sobbing the words with relief, putting her hands over her face. "Rhys…"

Rhys didn't answer: holding out the healstaff, he chanted softly. The wounds closed, leaving no trace of their existence. He reached out and put a hand on Soren's cold forehead. Yes, he was still alive, but only just, his breath hardly discernible. Rhys thanked the goddesses that their tactician obviously had not known the successful technique to razor one's own wrists.

Reaching up, Rhys removed his own outer robe, ignoring the chill that swept over him as he did so, and tucked it over Soren's small figure. The mage had obviously not intended to turn back, and was dressed very lightly, torso exposed to the elements; despite the sick feeling growing in his stomach, Rhys found time to wonder how old Soren really was. He'd been with the Mercenaries for years, yet his form was that of a twelve-year-old boy.

Rhys shook himself, swallowing. "Let's get him to someplace warm," he said quietly.


	2. The Mercenaries

As with many of my fics, this one revolves around a central character but will never be from his point of view. (That's at least half because I find it too awkward to write from Soren's perspective.) But it's also because Ike's disappearance would affect more than just Soren... though I think his would be the greatest loss.

* * *

~~ Chapter One: The Mercenaries ~~

* * *

The fire in the common room was blazing furiously, as it always had on evenings when some of the mercenaries were out, and might return late. Oscar, his arms wrapped around himself, shivered and stepped closer to the hearth. How could it be so cold in October?

Looking around the common room, he sighed, knowing perfectly well why he felt so cold. Rhys was the only other conscious occupant, and upon meeting Oscar's glance, gave a tired smile. Hesitating for a moment, the knight walked over to where Rhys was sitting, thin hands wrapped around a steaming mug of completely untouched tea.

"Are you all right?" Oscar asked. "You look exhausted."

The priest waved a negligent hand, but didn't offer any assurance that it wasn't true. Oscar wondered what had really been going on at the base lately: he himself, newly re-instated to the Royal Knights, had just left Melior two days before, and had stopped on the way to a recruitment mission just to say hello to the other mercenaries.

He had stopped first, though, at the grave of his former commander, just as the sun had set. Before even leaving the woods, he had heard the crying. Mist, the rain falling fast on her uncovered head, was kneeling at the marker that bore Elena and Greil's names, weeping and praying. Oscar had run to her, covered her with his cloak. "Something… something terrible has happened," was all she could get out as he led her back to the Greil Mercenaries' stronghold.

It was difficult to get any information out of Titania, who was shell-shocked into silence. Eventually, by making use of gentle comforting, Oscar had gathered that she'd known this was coming. "Goddess… I'd just hoped it _wouldn't_," she said, strong shoulders bowed, her arms around him. "But you know… you know it's impossible to talk to Soren. What would I have said?" He had not missed the emphasis in her voice: what could she, Titania, have said?

Oscar had just hugged her, unable to find a response. Something fishy was going on. It was one thing for Mist to be so upset, because she was naturally empathetic; the same went for Rhys, who almost always got emotionally involved with his convalescent patients. But what about Titania? She seemed to have taken the event as a personal failure. Oscar, who had spent a lifetime attempting to quietly observe and understand people, still wasn't sure he knew why their tactician had tried to kill himself.

Some small voice in the back of his head, though, told Oscar he wouldn't have done any better than Titania in trying to help Soren with anything. He made a mental note to ask Ike what on earth had happened, as soon as the commander showed up.

"You should really stay for awhile," Rhys said suddenly, and Oscar turned his eyes away from the small figure, lying on the cot placed to one side of the fire, and to the priest. Rhys's tea was obviously cooling quickly: Oscar got the feeling it was more for aromatherapy purposes than for drinking. "When did you say you're setting out tomorrow?"

Shrugging indifferently, Oscar sat down at the table. "I don't know. With this weather, it could take another week to get where I'm going. The general has asked me to recruit a former lieutenant for tactical purposes."

Or some such nonsense. He stared down at the scarred wood of the table, feeling uncharacteristically moody, but hesitant to complain about a job that Elincia had practically laid at his feet. The fact was, Oscar didn't really know a lot of the other Royal Knights, and adjusting to the return had been more difficult than he'd anticipated.

"Well, take your time. We're all happy to have you back, even for a day or two." Rhys was obviously sincere, but the tiredness in his voice carried through. His mild eyes searched Oscar's face. "Sorry you had to come back to… well, you know. Usually we'd be swilling beer and singing to the Royal Family's health by this point."

The thought of the Royal Family sent a pang of achingly painful longing into Oscar's chest, as it reminded him forcefully of a particular knight, who served Elincia and Renning with almost fanatical verve. He'd been in Oscar's recruit class, then in the Mercenaries for a while, back during the Mad King's War: now he was a general. But Oscar hadn't spoken to the man quite literally for years (probably since before Greil's death), and saw him only distantly. He wondered vaguely what it would be like, to have a friend in Melior.

The urge to ask Rhys if the Mercenaries needed him back for good, and not just for a few days, was almost overwhelming… but Oscar resisted. He had his duties now: he'd left the Knights once, and it would be bordering on treason to do it again with even less reason.

Sighing, he shrugged again. "Well, _que sera sera_. Maybe I should at least stay long enough to help Mist with the kitchen tomorrow. She seems pretty upset."

He saw Rhys's head droop ever so perceptibly. "She is upset," the priest said quietly. "I am too… we all are… but I think Mist took it the most personally. I'm sure you understand."

Oscar just stared for a moment, trying to think. "Er… no, I really don't know why. I mean, she's very sympathetic, and it really is awful. But I didn't know she was close with Soren… or that anyone but Ike was. I'm sure he'll know what happened."

There was a long pause; Rhys heaved a deep sigh. "Well, no. Thought I'm sure you're right. Sorry, Oscar, I forgot you haven't been here for a while." He leaned forward, almost conspiratorially, face full of grief. "Ike left. He's been gone for almost six weeks."

Oscar couldn't think of any response: his mind was blank. Well, that explained a lot of things: their assistant commander sounding crushed and defeated, Mist sobbing at her father's grave, and the pervasive feeling of gloom that lay over the whole base.

"Oh," he finally managed to say. Something was seething in the pit of his stomach, and Oscar realized it was indignation, and a growing anger.

"Yes," said Rhys, sounding more confused than upset. "He just… he said he had to leave. And that was only to Mist. The rest of us had been searching the base all morning, trying to find his dead body, before she told us."

It was enough just to imagine that, Oscar thought. Mist had probably been hysterical: even though she was almost eighteen, she'd already lost a mother and a father. To lose the very last of her family without a word of explanation… Oscar thought of his brothers, and knew he would be a wreck in Mist's place.

And Soren. It all made sense now. Probably no one had ever thought to talk to the tactician: but he was the only person in the Mercenaries who had relied so completely on the presence of their young commander. Probably Soren was the only person Oscar had ever known whose life revolved entirely around someone else's. Knowing even so little of Soren's history, Oscar finally understood why he'd tried to take his life.

"Goddess," he said, feeling ill. "No wonder… it must have been festering for all this time. Has he… has anyone been able to talk to him yet?"

Rhys shook his head. "No, not coherently." Oscar was surprised to see the priest's mouth curve in a bitter smile. "Didn't even glare at me or anything. Just said Ike's name a couple of times, and fell unconscious again." Rhys looked as if he were trying to decide whether to laugh or cry: Oscar understood perfectly. Interacting with Soren and not getting glared at was like trying to eat without opening your mouth. It was a fundamentally alien concept.

Oscar felt his breathing quicken, and a white-hot burst of fury was beginning to blind him. This was all so surreal: four hours ago, four days ago, or even four years ago, he would never have pictured himself angry at the commander on _anyone's_ behalf. And now, to be perfectly honest, he was tempted to demand where in the hell Ike had gone, so he could ride out and beat the younger man senseless… on account of Soren.

Rhys had stopped speaking, staring down into his lukewarm tea; at last he added, "I feel terribly about this, but I'm hoping against hope that he'll be furious when he wakes up."

Anything, anything to prolong his outer calm and bury the rage. "Why?" Oscar asked.

The priest hunched his shoulders, looking towards Soren as if afraid he might be heard. "He… um… it's hard to describe, but he… er, damaged the tendons in his wrists when… you know. But I didn't actually heal those. Just the, um, bleeding." Rhys's face had abruptly turned bright red, and Oscar was beginning to understand. "I just couldn't bear the thought of him trying it again."

Oscar managed to ever so slightly laugh. "You're not joking. Will it help, do you think?"

He'd left the rest of the sentence unexpressed—will anger help him through his wretchedness?—but Rhys understood, and shrugged. There was a short silence, and the priest finally laughed, more miserably than with any amusement. "I hope so. Goddess, it's just my hope that I can do _anything_ to help. I just couldn't stand the thought of him waking up and trying it again. I'm hoping he'll threaten to kill me at least once."


	3. Sister and Brother

Did anyone else actually tear up a little during the bonus base conversation in Radiant Dawn? To me it's unthinkable that the script writers could present that kind of relationship between Ike and Soren, but allow you to completely override it with an Ike-Ranulf support, or no support at all. Their relationship is the closest thing to canon this game gets.

* * *

~~ Chapter Two: Sister and Brother ~~

* * *

She felt like her insides were melting; the pain of losing her brother was almost unbearable, and hating him on someone else's behalf was almost more than she could bear.

Mist stopped in the hallway, hesitating for a long time outside the door. Her heart was fluttering mercilessly, making her breath come short and her hands clench uncontrollably. It was worse than the first time she'd gone into battle on horseback. That had been nerves: this was the thought that she might hold another person's life in her hands.

Finally, she muttered, "Get ahold of yourself, Mist," and knocked on the door.

There was no response, of course, but she'd had to try. Turning the knob, she entered.

He was exactly where he'd been for the last day: flat on his back in the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. "Soren?" Mist said softly, trying desperately to keep her voice from shaking. "Soren, I know you just want to be left alone, but I really need to talk with you."

His eyes didn't even flicker in her direction, didn't even recognize her entry. Mist stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "Please forgive me. All of us. I should have…" She felt tears beginning to prick, and wanted to curse aloud. This wasn't how she'd meant to come in, all goopy and apologetic.

Mist took a deep breath. Yesterday had been the first time for years that she'd cried so hard: Oscar had looked almost frightened when she'd flung herself on his shoulder. She wasn't about to start sobbing at every turn… not because of her stupid, traitorous brother.

Pausing for a moment to collect herself, she stepped toward Soren, feeling with every movement that she was penetrating further into a bubble which wasn't meant to be intruded upon by any person… except one. It took all the courage she had just to keep going. How could one tiny person be so intimidating?

Finally, she made it exactly to the side of his bed; Rhys had been in and out in the last day, and a bedside stool remained. "I really have to tell you something, Soren." Mist perched on its edge, trying to guess anything, trying with no avail to read any information from that dull crimson gaze, fixed somewhere between the ceiling and the grey leaden sky above the base.

Abruptly she felt a burst of irritation: it was unfair of her, but Mist couldn't take it any longer. "Soren, _look_ at me, and stop pretending like the whole world has stopped existing just because my— that— just because that _ass_ left us!"

There was finally movement deep in Soren's eyes; his head moved ever so perceptibly, gaze flicking toward her, but he still said nothing. Mist glared. "Of all the people here, I'm the one you should be talking to. Yelling at. Refusing to forgive, because I was so wrapped up in myself that I forgot to think about you. And I'm so sorry that I did."

Her eyes were swelling again, and Mist rubbed at them furiously. She continued, surprised to find her voice not just even, but venomous. "I _hate_ that he's done this to us. That he didn't even _think_ about how much we needed him. I loved my brother, and I can't believe he's filled me with so much hatred."

She couldn't go on any more; mostly because if she did, the tears would take over, but also because that was pretty much what she'd come to say. It was Soren's turn, and if he didn't say anything soon she was going to stand up and march out of here without a backward glance. There was only so much emotion you could give in a one-sided exchange.

They were both silent for a long time; the windows were closed, but the shutters had been thrown open to let in the early morning light, and Mist could hear the soft dripping of moisture from the trees. It had rained again the night before, and the base smelled deliciously of wet earth and fresh greenery. For the millionth time in six weeks, she found herself wishing they could all go back: maybe even as far as before her father died.

When he finally spoke, she was startled by the dryness, the calmness of his voice. For all the world, it was no different from his speech in a strategy conference. "I can't stay, you know. No one here either wants or needs me." There was no self-pity in either Soren's gaze or his voice; it was just a statement.

"That's not true!" Mist cried out passionately. She felt her hands trembling, wanting to grab him and shake him. "It's not true at all, Soren! If you'd ever paid attention to anyone else, you would have noticed that we _like_ you!"

"Oh, please," said Soren; his voice was simply tired rather than disdainful, but Mist could still feel the budding urge to smack him. "There's no need to lie. I'm not of any use to you now that Ike is gone. And let me tell you, there's no one anywhere else who needs me."

Mist stood up suddenly, stamping her foot and knocking the stool over. He flinched, even though she hadn't touched him or made any move to do so. "What is your obsession with being _needed_, Soren?" she demanded. "No one needs me, either! Rhys is better at healing, no one cares how good I cook even when Oscar's not here, and Titania knows how to do horseback swordplay better than me! I'm totally useless! But I'm still here, aren't I?"

Soren was already shaking his head before she finished, with a pained expression, nonetheless maddening because she knew he was deliberately trying not to understand. "There's more to being useful or needed than a skill set, Mist. If I left, it wouldn't change anyone's life. No one would care."

There was still no self-pity in his tone, but Mist was suddenly back to wanting to cry again.

Slowly, she reached down for the stool and set it back upright, then settled onto it, leaning forward. Trying to gather her calm once more, she said, "And I still think you're wrong. I would care. Everyone else would, too. You might think I'm stupid, or that I think the best of everyone, but Titania would care a lot. Do you know she's hardly stopped worrying about you since yesterday? She thinks this is all her fault, and not my dumb brother's. She's going to come in here sooner or later, and if you act like this you'll make her cry."

There was no way to miss the tiny, disdainful sniff Soren gave, as he looked toward the window. Mist reached out, trying to control her anger, and laid a hand on his. "I'm serious, Soren! Remember when Shinon called her a nosy bitch and said he would never come back to the Mercenaries? Before Rolf got him to change his mind, she cried all night. I know the two of you haven't always gotten along, but that's not important at times like this." Mist wondered if any of this was getting through to him; for all she knew, Soren really didn't have the capability to understand.

He'd gone totally stiff when she touched his hand, and seemed unable to speak. Finally, barely moving his lips, he said, "I'm different from all of you." It was almost a whisper, and she barely made out his next words. "You wouldn't want me here if you knew."

"_Yes I would!_" Mist yelled, and he flinched again, eyes now wide and fixed on her face. "Don't you get it, genius? You're part of my family! When my dad died he left that much behind for me, that I could still have a family that I loved. I don't _care_ who's different, who's _useful_ or knows the most! You're part of my family and even if you drive me crazy I _love_ you!"

Soren cried out in pain, and instantly Mist was chagrined, pulling her hands away; she had tightly grabbed his hands, obviously jarring the unhealed tendons in his bandaged wrists. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry," she said, more quietly but still with fervor.

She put a hand on his shoulder, and with her left hand turned his unresisting face toward her. "Please, please try to understand, Soren! Yes, you're different. You have some kind of secret that you won't tell any of us, and even though I don't know why, or what it is that eats at you, or even whether or not my brother knew when he abandoned us, you're still important. You're a weird, awkward, testy, brilliantly and impatiently self-conscious person who's really, really hard to understand and who never talks to me, and who's sometimes unbearably abrasive, but that doesn't mean I can't love you like a brother."

Soren had closed his eyes, his face tight. Mist realized that probably no one else had ever touched him so gently before, at least who wasn't doing so in the efficient capacity of healing.

Fooled by his cold expression, she didn't at first notice his tears until one rolled over her thumb. His dark lashes were almost dry, but with his eyes still closed, he swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in his thin throat. She suddenly realized that his hair wasn't black: it was a very, very dark green, so dark that it appeared obsidian.

Stroking the tear from his cheek with her thumb, Mist said softly, "Anyway, I don't know what you should do, Soren. If it's worse for you to stay here, then we can help you find someplace else. But the only thing you'll do if you kill yourself is break our hearts."

She couldn't think of anything else; her list of things to tell him was exhausted. She waited, but his eyes stayed closed, his body frozen in resistance, the tears drying in lines on his hollow cheeks. Drawing her hands away, Mist stood up, and by dint of taking deep breaths managed to keep away her own tears as she walked to the doorway.

She was not only to the door, but halfway through it, when she heard his quiet voice from behind her. "Mist…"

Turning, she saw that he had hiked himself up to a sitting position, hands awkwardly held away from the covers; his eyes were turned down to the floor, but at last, he looked up and met her gaze. "I… I'm not…" Soren struggled momentarily, hunching his shoulders. Finally, he said simply, "Thank you."

A great wave of relief swept through Mist; she felt the tension melt away from her shoulders. She ran back to him, put her arms around him—gently, this time—and kissed his cheek. She'd never really felt as much affection for the tactician as for the other members of the company: everything she'd said about his abrasiveness and secrecy had been true. But she hadn't lied, either, when she said he was like a brother. All of the Mercenaries were family to her, especially the people who'd been around when her father died.

Surprising her, as she pulled away, Soren added, "I'm sorry… if I caused you pain. You and the others." His words were a clear battle for dignity: she could hear how much he hated to tell her any of his emotions. "It… it never occurred to me…"

He couldn't finish the sentence, bowing his head: but Mist understood, and didn't bother finishing it herself. "I know. It's okay, Soren. Ike told me… just a little. About how he was your only friend." The thought of her brother was such agony that she almost didn't want to continue; but with an effort, Mist finished by adding, "Please don't think that because you didn't have friends in the past that you don't now, okay?"

Soren didn't answer, but she saw his head move ever so slightly in a nod. Ever so carefully—and so awkwardly that in another situation, Mist might have laughed—he put his arms around her in a hug. Mist sniffled, touched: she figured it would do her more good than harm, and gave up on trying not to cry.


	4. Beginning A Journey

A/N: I write third-person Oscar the exact same way I write Rhys (though differently than when I write them in first person), and I don't knowwhy that _bothers me_ so much.

Hrm. This is getting super long and depressing (partly because a Kieran-less Oscar is almost sadder than an Ike-less Soren), so if you're starting to feel too bored, go search "Manifestation" on DeviantArt. The artist you're looking for, keiiii, loves Soren at least as much as I do.

* * *

~~ Chapter Three: Beginning a Journey ~~

* * *

As grieved as all the Mercenaries were upon their departure—Mist, in particular, had locked herself in her room—Oscar sensed that there was also a certain amount of relief from some when he and Soren headed south. His own chest ached awfully as he saw the base fade into the distance. It wouldn't be the last time he saw it, of course: Elincia and Geoffrey were more than generous when it came to giving the Royal Knights personal leave.

But he knew he wouldn't be back as often. The group's dynamic was dying. Titania was already beginning to doubt her ability to lead them, and while most of the mercenaries implicitly trusted her, there were others who were beginning to wonder if simply helping people was enough.

Oscar winced as he recalled the conversation with his little brother. "As if I need to bring up Shinon again," Rolf had said grumpily, toying with the fletches of an arrow. He hadn't been able to look Oscar in the eye. "He's doing the same thing he did back when Commander Greil was killed. Gatrie might not go with him this time, but then again…" Rolf hadn't finished, but even though Oscar had only stayed at the base for two days, he already knew.

No one but Shinon really had any ulterior motives for wanting to leave. But Gatrie was… well, he was dumb enough to believe Shinon. (Again.) And Oscar could see Mia not coming for her monthly visit, or Zihark ceasing to stop by every once in a while on his way from Melior to Gallia. Rhys had set up a little school for teaching healers, Rolf had a class of archery students.

If he himself weren't so fanatically attached to what Mist called the Family, the Mercenaries who had been around when Greil died, Oscar wouldn't come to visit, either. He had no other need to keep torturing himself.

The rain pounded down on them now, as if in retribution for Oscar's traitorous thoughts. He glanced over at his silent traveling companion, wrapped in so many layers of robes that little more than the tip of a nose was visible. Oscar had his own cloak thrown over his head, so the sounds of the horses were muffled.

He was grateful for the rain, which made it impossible to speak. So many questions trembled on his lips that he'd had to bite his tongue more than once already. He didn't even know when Soren would be leaving him: when Oscar had said he was heading towards a settlement near the forest border, on the edge of Gallia, the tactician had simply asked to come along.

The generally unpleasant atmosphere, too, let him keep an eye on Soren without overtly watching. Oscar knew that thanks to years of training, he himself could ride for days on only a few hours' sleep. But prior mercenary campaigns were enough to know that the high-strung tactician's health was average at best, and he suspected that Soren, suffering not only from loss of blood but probably also simple heartbreak, was much weaker than he would ever admit.

If Oscar had been accompanied by a third companion—his heart ached again for the ability to josh with a fellow Royal Knight—he might have been surreptitiously placing a bet on how long it would take Soren to simply fall right off the horse. It should be happening anytime now: they'd left their last camp early in the morning and had only stopped briefly to lunch.

He sighed, resigned. After six days of travel, they were almost to the settlement, and he would get at least half of an answer. His own recruitment mission was all or nothing. If the former knight decided to accede, then Oscar would be in luck, and could return to Melior immediately. If not, well… maybe he could send a message to Melior, and ask for a few days' leave to go with Soren. More than anything, Oscar was filled with an uncharacteristic burning curiosity.

The rain slackened after a few miles, just as the sun was beginning to set. Oscar turned his face west, the pitiful autumn rays nevertheless glorious after a whole day of gloom.

"The settlement is just over that hill," he said, more to reassure himself than because he thought Soren didn't know. The trees rustled what few leaves they had left, and Oscar caught the scent of cornstalks in a nearby field: it was almost euphoric.

"All right," said Soren's quiet voice from under the thick cloak, surprising Oscar. Perhaps he really hadn't known where they were.

A very short ride over the top of the hill brought them into a quaint little town, emancipated from the local mesne only a few years before. Oscar had been here before, but it had been when the lord still ruled from a nearby manor. The lieutenant he had been assigned to re-recruit was actually one of his former Royal Knight companions: he wasn't looking forward to speaking with the woman again. He'd only made it to the rank of captain, due to leaving the Knights and his stint in the Mercenaries, and she was sure to ask snidely what had gone wrong.

"Let's stop at the blacksmith's, and then I'll see about finding the person I'm here to speak with," he said, again expecting no answer from Soren.

The tactician didn't speak, but pulled back the hood concealing his face. As usual, the fine-cut brows were furrowed on Soren's pallid face, expressing a perpetual disappointment with the intelligence of the world at large. He gave a simple, curt nod; Oscar mentally sighed.

A few townspeople looked up interestedly as they reined in before the blacksmith's shop. Vaulting off his mount, Oscar led her up to the smith. "Any chance I can get our horses shod before tomorrow morning or so?" he asked.

The man, rough-cut but friendly enough beneath a fluffy beard, scratched his head and shrugged, gesturing around. "Well, sure. Not really the season for travelers. Goin' a long way?"

The last comment had obviously been tacked on just for friendly conversation. "Back to Melior tomorrow, is the plan," Oscar answered, watching as the smith expertly maneuvered his horse's leg to check the shoe, patting and gently coaxing the mare. "Is there an inn here, or should we plan to camp out for the night?"

There was a pause as the smith took one last look at the horseshoe, then lowered the horse's leg once more. "That's a good gal." Then he turned to Oscar. "Nope, Andros down the way runs a little inn. Might be a little rougher than you're used to, but for a couple gold you can get a room and dinner."

"Sounds good to me," Oscar said, feeling a sort of relief. He had assumed that, as with his journey here many years before, there was no inn, and that he would be sleeping in a tent. Or, worse yet, on the former lieutenant's floor.

He was just about to open his mouth and reluctantly ask the blacksmith if he knew a Juliana who lived in town, when the man yelped, "Whoa! Look out!" Oscar turned just in time to throw up his arms and catch Soren as he slid off the horse.

They both crashed to the muddy ground; Oscar's horse neighed and skittered. For a panicked moment he thought that she might trample his face, but she shied away, prancing in distress.

"Yow! You two all right?" the blacksmith asked, bending over with one rough hand extended. Oscar, all the wind knocked out of him, grabbed the hand and yanked himself upright. Soren was rather small, but Oscar was wearing all of his armor, and the chest plate felt like it was crushing his ribs.

After a moment, he managed to wheeze out, "Thanks… I'm… all right. Soren, what the…" It was no use even getting angry: the tactician's features were slack and uncharacteristically soft in unconsciousness. Oscar wished he'd had someone to make that bet with.

He looked up at the blacksmith. "He's, er… not been well. Guess I'd better go find that inn."

"Ayuh," the man said, obviously interested. He turned his head toward the forge, and shouted, "Hey, Talo!" Facing Oscar once more, the blacksmith explained, "My apprentice'll help you carry him there."

"Oh, you don't have to—"

"Nah, it's no problem. Thing is," the blacksmith explained, leaning close and confidential, "it's been a long year since we've had any real Royal Knights come by, and I'm bettin' Andros will be glad to have you. We're glad to see the Royal Family still keeps tabs on our little backwater village."

Oscar opened his mouth, then closed it, almost touched beyond words. When was the last time his service to the Knights had been really appreciated? "I… well, thank you," he said, wincing as the apprentice roughly threw Soren's limp form over his shoulder. "The queen is concerned about all her people."

The man clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to know."

* * *

Three hours later, Oscar was blissfully warm and dry, stretched out in an armchair before the fire, boots up on the fender; he glanced over at the bed, feeling vaguely ill, but merely sighed and forced himself to think of something else.

Not that there was much else to think of. His negotiations—if such a pitiful twenty minutes could even be called that—had failed dismally. The former lieutenant had entirely dismissed him: drunk off her head, she'd even called him by a few choice nicknames that he hadn't heard practically since recruitment. Oscar sighed, disgusted that it actually bothered him. What a waste of time and effort on the Knights' part, to send him out here looking for that crazy witch.

There was a whispering of quilts, and Oscar looked over to see Soren stirring, still uneasily dozing. After a short while, the tactician opened his eyes, blankly staring at the ceiling as if unsure that he was awake. His hands moved, finding one another; abruptly his eyes grew dark, and he glanced over.

"Yes," said Oscar, glad to hear that despite his uncertainty, his voice sounded quite calm. "I didn't know where to find a healer, but I had some spare dressings in my saddlebag." He held up the knife that had fallen from Soren's belt, the same one that had almost taken his life a week ago. "Do you, er... want this back? It... um..."

Oh, dear. Oscar winced; Soren was simply looking at him, with an embarrassed and naked expression of pain.

Well, he should feel at least a little embarrassed, Oscar thought guiltily, and set the knife on the arm of his chair. After the blacksmith's apprentice had unceremoniously dumped his cargo onto the bed, Oscar had been left alone in charge of the unconscious tactician. He had almost choked in panic when the sleeves of Soren's robe fell back and both wrists, again, were soaked in blood.

Except this time... "Look," Oscar forced himself to say, mostly because the longer he waited, the greater the likelihood he would burst out and say something truly stupid. "I think I've guessed why you asked to come along. You're looking for your family, aren't you?"

Soren's penetrating gaze didn't change, didn't even waver: but he swallowed visibly. Face inscrutable, he finally nodded, still wordless.

Oscar had already known, but the affirmation was like castle doors being thrown open to a banquet inside. In just that tiny nod, he learned more of Soren's history than he had in the last ten years.

The wind and rain had picked back up outside: while Oscar was quite comfortable, the distant rattle from the shutters was enough to make him realize the rest of the room was probably freezing, and to notice that his companion was shivering. Sighing to himself, he stood up and crossed to the bed. Without a word of exchange, he helped Soren get up, and settled him in the second armchair, dragging the bedspread from the mattress and throwing it over the tactician.

They were silent for a moment, as Soren shrank lower beneath the blanket. "Well..." Oscar finally said, "I know... or at least I can try to know... why you would want to know. I grew up in the Knights under King Ramon, all the younger knights knew what the Branded were. Except that the whispers among the ranks said a brand was a curse. Goddess, I'm sure it must seem like one."

He sighed aloud, wishing Soren would speak up and cut him off: but it was really too much to hope for. The tactician sat, as if made of stone, just watching, waiting. "Anyway. I can't believe it took me this long to figure it out. It wasn't until... well, you..."

Words failed him, and he looked back toward the fire. It wasn't until he'd uncovered Soren's arms, and had found the brand carved into the boy's skin over and over again (the same blood-red shape that adorned his forehead) that Oscar had realized exactly what that mark meant.

There was a long silence, and he finally added, "So, yeah. You can tell me, and I'll help, or... or I'll just head back to Melior and not say a word."

It sounded so lame that as soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back. Even yelling at the top of her lungs, Mist had been incredibly eloquent on the subject of Soren as her brother, her family, someone who meant a lot to her. And all Oscar could think to say was _So, yeah._

But that was the thing about Soren: although he tended to say exactly what he thought, he also tended to read a lot into what everyone else did and said. "I would be glad of your help," Soren said, very quietly: and, as Oscar had expected, somewhat hesitantly "It's just... I've never..."

His small chest heaved briefly with inexpressible emotion, with tears and longings that couldn't escape. Mastering himself, he pulled the bedspread tighter around his shoulders, and finished, "It didn't seem so important before. But now that I'm alone, I can't let it go. Not until I find out."

Oscar understood, better than he'd thought he would. Ike had been more than just the warm center around which the Greil Mercenaries revolved: he was practically Soren's identity, the touchstone for his self-confidence and trust in others. Soren had been able to overlook the desperate loneliness of his brand, and the misery it had brought him... until Ike suddenly left.

Since then it had obviously become his whole world. Another strange surge of hatred washed through Oscar's heart. Hadn't Ike realized this would happen?

"Rolf would understand this even better than me," he said suddenly, remembering. "My dad died when Rolf was little, no more than six... when Greil took us in, Rolf attached himself to Shinon, made him into not just a teacher, but a new dad. God only knows what Shinon got out of it. When he and Gatrie left..."

Oscar felt himself choking a little in fury: the situation was more than analogous, and he wished irrationally that he was Soren's older brother, too. He'd already had strong words with Shinon about this subject; Ike deserved more than a few of a the same. "Well, I guess I should take some responsibility, for not being a better brother. But Shinon leaving really destroyed what childhood Rolf had left. He grew up practically overnight... I assumed it was because of Mist, because he was trying to help her get over her dad's death."

But Rolf had secretly borne the wound for close to a year. Oscar remembered the bewilderingly fervent glee with which Rolf had welcomed Shinon back into their ranks, after the battle at Tor Garen, and wondered if Soren would similarly throw himself on Ike if their commander suddenly returned.

The thought made him snort in amusement. It seemed more likely that Soren would stab Ike in his sleep. "I guess the difference is," Oscar admitted, knowing that Soren was listening, but still feeling as if he were soliloquizing, "that Rolf had me and Boyd, even before Greil took us in. And before Shinon left, Rolf had no reason to distrust anyone."

He left the rest unsaid, because he knew nothing of Soren's treatment as one of the Branded, or his family situation up until joining the Mercenaries. His assumptions, respectively, were "terribly" and "nonexistent," but Oscar was tired of talking in generalities.

In fact, he was tired of talking at all. And thinking. He wanted nothing more than to just lie down and sleep (preferably after a few stiff drinks), and to wake up five or six years ago. Leaning back, he closed his eyes, trying to remember what it felt like to be happy, what it felt like to to make _other_ people happy.

He must have dozed off for a moment, and started upright when Soren said, wearily, "I know." The tactician heaved another deep breath, and looked at Oscar with something like longing in his eyes. "Mist said it, and from what you just told me, I know you want to say it, too. The Mercenaries are my family, and I should rely on you. And to a point, I would. But..."

Soren shook his head, hopelessly; Oscar could finally see him fighting against the tears. Finally he managed, "It's utterly pathetic. If I saw someone else behaving like this, I would feel nothing but scorn." There was a long silence; Soren turned his face away, but either couldn't or simply didn't disguise the shaking of his shoulders.

Oscar found himself wishing, this time less passively and more fervently, that Soren really was his brother. Then Oscar would at least know what to say: he'd never had any difficulty emotionally supporting his brothers, even Boyd, who consistently referred to him as a mothering nag. But there was simply no way to tell your emotionally estranged tactician to _Buck up_ or _Think about something else_, much less pat him on the back as he cried.

The fire snapped and crackled comfortingly: Oscar thought about the coming morning. He could ask the innkeeper if a rider was available, maybe even to send a message to Melior tonight. At the moment, it seemed more important to get his family through this crisis than to worry about losing a post he didn't really care about anymore.

"I can take off Knights duty long enough to get you to Castle Gallia," he said. Soren looked over, eyes still streaming, but his face calm. "I don't know if that's where you wanted to start, but I'm sure Skrimir would be more than happy to help."

Unexpectedly, Soren laughed: it was half-rueful, a little hysterical, and very brief. But Oscar could detect a fond little smile lingering in the corner of the tactician's mouth. It had probably been years since Oscar had seen him laugh, even sarcastically.

"Yes, he might," Soren said. Pausing, he added, a bit formally, "I... thank you. It's evident I'm not... not yet capable of going alone." His crimson gaze flicked to the knife still sitting at Oscar's elbow, then away, chagrined.

"Forget capable," Oscar said, standing up: he might as well just ask the innkeeper tonight about sending a rider. "There's no reason for you to take a journey like this alone, period. Not when someone from your family can go with you."

As he left the room to go downstairs, Oscar glanced back: Soren was pensively staring into the fire. It might just have been the darkness, and Oscar's glowing conviction that things would improve from this point on, but it almost looked as if there were hope on the tactician's thin face.


	5. Gallia

A/N: Oscar and Soren as surrogate parents _what is wrong with me_

I've already written ahead in this fic (hint: Daein), I swear this is eventually going somewhere. Too long...too much _not about Soren_...

* * *

~~ Chapter Four: Gallia ~~

* * *

They didn't exchange a word as they strode through the hallway. Oscar tried to distract himself from worrying by thinking of how much he had missed Castle Gallia. There was something about its layout, the spectacular inner gardens, and the unhurried efficiency of its inhabitants that trumped even Melior.

A sudden nostalgic longing filled him as laguz politely nodded to them: he missed his brothers, and the other Mercenaries. He missed Rolf's raging, uncontrollably childlike cheerfulness... the belligerent confidence that belied Boyd's shy and romantic heart... Oscar missed Titania perhaps the most of all the others. Her inherent, parent-like trust in those she commanded gave the whole group a sense of being _home_.

He glanced over at Soren. The tactician's face was inscrutable, as always: did he ever _miss_ anyone, think about them and wish they were present? Did he ever think about the Mercenaries as being a home? Oscar doubted it.

Some little voice in his brain was sneering that Soren didn't care much about anyone or anything... that was not just unfair, but also untrue, and Oscar wanted to blush for even thinking it. Considering what he had seen in the last week (especially the last twenty-four hours), he was beginning to suspect there were surprisingly strong emotions and attachments thrashing to escape from beneath that calm exterior. Still... it was difficult to imagine Soren thinking of anyplace as home.

As they turned into the reception room, a lanky figure gracefully loped toward them. Ranulf did not look happy to see them: in fact, Oscar couldn't recall a time when the usually cheerful warrior had looked so entirely glum. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" he asked, sounding as if it were the least pleasant thing in the world.

Oscar turned his face away, restraining a smile. Ranulf's tail was actually flicking back and forth, as if they'd needed yet another indication of his irritation. _Wow_, he thought in amusement. _I knew these two didn't like one another, but really?_

Soren, of course, was just cool enough to be infuriating. "Ranulf. Good morning. I've come on a personal matter, and have asked to see the king."

Ranulf's eyebrows rose, seeming to say _Yes, I knew that_. Soren sniffed disdainfully, and went on. "There's something I should tell you first, though. You're aware that Ike has left Crimea?"

Oscar could sense just how much it took for Soren to say that name: but naturally, since they were in front of Ranulf, the tactician would be doing his damndest to appear unaffected. In the meantime, Ranulf's tail had stopped flicking, and his mouth was a little open in bafflement. "Er..." The cat cleared his throat, eyes unsteady. "No, I didn't know that. He left... for good?"

Then he caught himself, putting a casual hand on his waist. They all three stood silent for a moment; Ranulf eyed them, giving Oscar only a brief glance before his thoroughly uncomfortable gaze returned to Soren. That gaze was now clearly saying something else: Oscar couldn't quite tell what.

Soren finally replied, quite coolly, "Probably. It's been almost two months, after all."

"Huh," was Ranulf's only response: terse, rather than thoughtful. Oscar suddenly understood what was running through the cat's head. So Ike was gone... why wasn't Soren?

The thought was maddeningly like the one he'd had a week ago, sitting beside that comfortable fire with Rhys. Probably it was no different for anyone. Even Mist had confessed that, even before realizing just how much Soren had been emotionally affected by Ike's departure, she had no idea why her brother _hadn't_ taken the tactician. The two were almost never seen apart: it was taken for granted that if Ike was doubtful about any matter, whether tactical or personal, he would simply turn his head and ask Soren.

Oscar had a sudden vision of Ike, standing at a crossroads in the forest, opening his mouth to ask Soren which way to go and suddenly realizing the tactician wasn't there. Oscar wondered vaguely if Ike had only been gone this long because he was completely lost.

Ranulf seemed about to say something else: but the clatter of small beorc feet arrested him. They all turned: it was the child, running full-tilt towards Oscar. She was followed hesitantly by one of the castle guards, his face a mask of chagrin. "I'm sorry, sirs, but she seems scared of us. The healer got a chance to see that she's all right, though. Just a few bruises is all."

Oscar reached down to pick up the child before she could ram her face into his shin-guards; immediately she nestled her small, tear-stained cheek against his collar, twining delicate little hands into the fastenings of his cloak. He patted her back, looking a bit helplessly at the guard. "Thank you. Perhaps she's never seen laguz before... she's probably just scared of everyone right now."

The tiger grinned sheepishly, showing a charmingly sharp pair of eyeteeth. _Except you_, his smile said. Oscar shrugged in response; children, like horses, just tended to trust him. But that was sort of difficult to explain, unless he wanted to go into the long story of having practically raised two brothers. Oscar suspected the squint had something to do with it, too.

More simply, though, he thought it was perhaps the circumstances of his meeting the child that made her like him. Oscar noticed that Soren was assiduously studying everything else in the room, and felt a pang of sorrow.

* * *

It had been less than twenty-four hours since either of them had first laid eyes on the child. He and Soren, practically able to see Castle Gallia on a distant hilltop, had finished packing up their makeshift camp in the forest. Oscar had just put one foot in the stirrup when a high-pitched wail, echoing from not far away, had caused his horse to shy, almost yanking Oscar off-balance. When he finally retained his dignity, the hair on the back of his neck was still standing up; looking at Soren, he'd seen the tactician's face was likewise frozen.

"Should we see what it is?" he asked uncertainly.

After a moment, Soren turned to him; his expression was unreadable, but he nodded in response. Oscar retied the horses, and they strode toward the sound of the eerie noise.

Before long, it came again; now they could hear a raised voice, berating. There was the sound of a hand on flesh, and a shriek: this time it was of pain, rather than misery, and Oscar could tell it was a child's voice.

He was startled when Soren broke into a run at the sound, flitting through the trees with his hair flying wildly. Oscar was tempted to call after him, but his own stomach was wrenched into knots at what they might find, and he quickened his pace. Was it simply a parent disciplining their child? Some sense was telling him no: Oscar had been whipped by his father more than once for doing something stupid, but neither he nor his brothers had ever made a noise like this.

The trees parted briefly, revealing a half-collapsed cottage, hidden in brush. A ragged woman and a toddler were in the yard beside the house; the child had fallen to her knees, one hand held in the air by the woman, ostensibly her mother.

"What is wrong with you?" the woman shrieked furiously, delivering a blow to the side of the child's head. "Why am I cursed with such a stupid child?" Her face was twisted in fury, the pockmarked skin and sunken nose standing out clearly in the morning chill.

Before Oscar could say or do anything, Soren—his weakness evidently vanished in anger—leapt the front fence and seized the woman's arm. "Stop this," he said, voice quiet and deadly serious.

"What the—?" The woman seemed utterly taken aback, head moving wildly as she tried to figure out where two strangers had come from. Oscar realized what this must look like: he wasn't wearing his armor or any insignia, and both of their clothes were travel-stained. Though they carried no weapons, to this half-crazed woman they probably looked like bandits.

She struggled momentarily with Soren; one of her eyes was dead and white, while the other flashed with fury and confusion. Trying to thrust away the sickness in his stomach, Oscar took the moment to vault over the fence, dashing to kneel before the child. One side of her pretty little forehead was swollen in a bruise; tears and mucus were freely mingling in pathetic helplessness, sticking to the silky black hair.

"Don't you touch her, this isn't your business!" screamed the woman, finally yanking her arm free of Soren's grip and jerking the girl upright.

There was another pitiful wail of pain from the girl, as her shoulder was almost jerked from the socket. "Shut up, shut up, _shut up_!" the woman shrieked, aiming another blow at the girl's head.

Her hand never made contact; Soren quite literally shoved her backwards, and as she lost her balance, she let go of the child's arm. Staggering back against the fence, the woman stared at him, gaping.

"Don't," Soren said, even more quietly. Menace, anger, and sorrow strove for control in his voice.

The woman closed and opened her mouth; before she could say a word, the child picked herself up off the ground and took off, clumsily running away as she cried. "Get back here," the woman roared, glaring half at the child and half at Soren. She started moving as if to chase the girl.

Oscar couldn't think fast enough, couldn't move fast enough; the woman's hands were stretched out as if to grab the girl by her hair; Soren was reaching into his robes to pull out something; the little girl tripped, and Soren's hand came up with a throwing knife in it.

"Soren, _no_!" was all Oscar had time to yell, before the tactician's hand flicked and a whirling blur sped toward the woman.

Oscar stood, momentarily paralyzed in disbelief. Then the little girl's crying went on, galvanizing him into running forward. The woman lay stretched out on the ground, her wasted frame hardly large enough to make an impression on the wet earth. Soren knelt down next to her, but Oscar averted his eyes.

The small girl looked up at his approach, eyes huge and wet in a round little face. "It's all right," he said softly, holding out a hand. It was anything but all right, and he had to keep himself from shaking. Everything had happened so _fast_. "It's okay, no one's going to hurt you."

He tried to smile, tried to appear as harmless as possible. Evidently it worked: the girl sniffled miserably and allowed him to pick her up, her plump little arms circling his neck.

As soon as she was nestled against him, it all came back, as if a child in his arms were the most natural thing in the world. It was cuddling baby Rolf by the fire, comforting a three-year-old Boyd who'd injured himself for the hundredth time. Patting the toddler's back and speaking to her—nothing particular, just whatever came to him—Oscar lost track of where he was for a moment, bathed in the pure joy that was giving comfort to a child.

At last a quiet voice at his shoulder broke the trance. "Is she all right?"

Oscar whirled. An unexplained fury rose up, and seeing Soren's hard, composed features did not allay the anger. "You—" He didn't want to say anything specific with the child in between them, and glared down at the poor woman, her limbs still askew. "Why did you do that?" he hissed. "There was no need to— we could have stopped her some other way, Soren."

The tactician was silent; his expression wavered momentarily, showing just enough regret for some of Oscar's anger to fade. "I know," was the dull response. "I know. I would say she was—" Soren looked at the child, obviously restraining himself from saying that the woman had been about to die anyway. "It's no excuse."

The little girl, done crying, turned her head to peek around at the other stranger; looking back up at Oscar, she shyly buried her face in the fur of his cloak again. The last of his fury dissipated; he sighed, prepared to say something palliative.

But Soren interrupted, as if trying to hastily amend. "This was just... it..." He took a deep breath and finished, "I'll explain. Later. But this happened to me. I couldn't just..." His eyes were fixed on the little girl; she had closed her eyes and stuck a thumb in her mouth, unaware.

Oh. Well, that explained the total irrationality of the situation. Oscar felt a little guilty for his impatience: it had, after all, seemed very unlike the usually level-headed Soren to simply kill an unarmed woman. The last time Oscar had seen him this out of control had been just after Greil's death, when he had been ready and willing to attack the laguz who'd just rescued the company.

He sighed again. "She's all right, I think. Let's get out of here."

_Continued in the next chapter._


	6. Gallia, Part 2

_Part 2 of the last chapter, because long chapters scare people_.

* * *

With no spades and the ground frozen, they realized there was no way to bury the woman. They had settled for placing her in the corner of the yard and covering her with a small cairn of stones—or rather, Soren had settled for doing so. Oscar, offering to help, had been coldly reminded that someone needed to take care of the girl and fetch the horses. "It won't take long... then we can leave," was all Soren added.

Shrugging, Oscar had turned and weaved his way back through the trees, still carrying the girl. By the time he had returned, leading both horses, the cairn had been built and Soren was nowhere in sight.

The little girl was bouncing up and down with excitement in the saddle, even as he held onto her smock to keep her balanced. Something about riding a horse always made children happier, and Oscar was glad it had worked.

She hadn't said a word yet, though, and in his experience most children of this age babbled uncontrollably when excited. "So what's your name?" he asked lightly. "I know you're probably not supposed to talk to strangers, but I'm a knight. That means I work for the queen. I'm Oscar."

She never responded—like a true child, she was more interested in playing with the mare's mane, occasionally kicking with her small heels as if to spur on a gallop—but he kept up the one-sided conversation, waiting for Soren to return. The horse snorted once or twice, tossing her mane in impatience, looking back at him as if to say, _Are you serious? I'm supposed to be riding into battle, not baby-sitting!_

At last Soren appeared from behind the cottage; there was no indication of what he'd been doing, though as usual he looked pale and ill. Oscar suspected he'd been sick; but he said nothing as the tactician came over.

"Let's go," Soren said, tightly.

Oscar put a foot in the stirrup and mounted on the saddle behind the girl. She settled back against him, one hand on the saddle-horn and the other thumb back in her mouth. He had to grin: she was just like Rolf had been ten years ago.

They rode for most of the day; the frost-laden hills and valleys of Gallia slowed their progress, especially burdened as they were by both heavy thoughts and their new companion. At one point, the little girl began trying to turn around, looking up at Oscar as if she had something to say. "What, what's the matter?" he asked. "Do you need to go?"

She gazed up at him with blank eyes for a moment: then, in an unambiguous signal, she patted her stomach. And as if to make sure he got the gist of it, she patted his stomach, too. "Oh, you're hungry," he said, laughing. "Okay, let me see what I have." Reaching back into his saddlebag, he found a hard roll and an apple. The little girl seized the bread, sat back, and munched away with great satisfaction.

He looked over at Soren, who had been watching in what seemed to be silent amusement. Oscar wordlessly offered the fruit: the tactician shrugged with a tiny smile, and neatly fielded the apple when Oscar tossed it.

He rummaged once more, and settled on satisfying his own hunger—truthfully, he hadn't even noticed it yet—with another apple. They were crisp and tangy, bought from the innkeeper back in Crimea, and he relished the last tastes of the fall harvest.

Eventually, come nightfall, Oscar had called a halt. "I know we're within three or four hours of the castle," he said, hoping Soren wouldn't argue, "but I'd rather stop for the night, if it's all the same." There was no response; Soren wordlessly reined in, helped him set up the camp.

To Oscar's great relief—and entertainment—at one point the little girl wandered away from him as they were pitching their tents. He watched as she surveyed the situation, small head cocked curiously, and reached up to take a handful of Soren's robes. When the owner of said robes looked down, astonished, she merely stuck a thumb in her mouth and looked at him with innocent eyes.

Oscar turned back to the stake he was pounding into the ground, unable to keep from smiling, as a bewildered Soren opened his mouth, closed it again, and simply went back to what he'd been doing, with the girl following his every step. It was possibly the single most adorable thing the knight had seen in years. Beyond that, he was also irrationally glad that the girl wasn't afraid of Soren.

Eventually they settled around a small fire, as the moon began its silvery rise behind the trees. Oscar hadn't brought anything to make a hot meal, but he was of the opinion that a handful of jerky and the last of the fresh apples made a fine repast, especially in such fine weather.

The little girl, having made short work of her portion, soon climbed into his lap, companionably pulled his cloak around her, and fell fast asleep in the crook of his elbow. He wondered briefly if she would have done the same in the lap of any large, warm beorc who was conveniently nearby. The answer was undoubtedly yes, but he flattered himself that the horse ride had been what won her over.

Oscar suddenly became aware that he was being watched: he looked up to find Soren's eyes on him. And if he wasn't mistaken, the eyes betrayed not only longing, but jealousy. Soren looked away quickly, obviously embarrassed to reveal himself.

Before long, though, he turned back, and asked, "How old do you think she is?"

Shrugging, Oscar answered, "Probably three or four. It's hard to tell, though, because she hasn't said anything. Most kids her age are babbling away about everything within sight. I'm worried that perhaps she's still in shock."

To his surprise, Soren shook his head. "No. I think it's simpler than that—I think she's deaf." As Oscar looked down at the angelic little child sleeping against him, Soren continued, "When you held her, she put her hand on your throat. And unless she's right up against you like that, she doesn't look at your face when you talk."

Soren had put a hand to his own throat in illustration; Oscar did vaguely remember the girl placing her warm little hand there when he had first picked her up. "Oh," he said, feeling sublimely stupid for not having noticed. "Do you think it's because..."

He winced at the memory of the woman's slap, echoing harshly through the cold forest. The awful possibility struck him as probably the worst thing a child could go through, and he felt a brief bitter satisfaction that the woman was dead.

But again, Soren was shaking his head, looking at the girl intensely. "No. I think she was born that way. Perhaps that's why the woman hated her so much: she can cry but not speak."

A current of loathing had underscored Soren's forcibly calm tones. Oscar found himself asking, quite against his will, "So... you said you understood this. That you..." He couldn't quite finish: how did you go about asking someone if they were abused as a child?

But Soren just shrugged, icily. "Yes. My caretaker loathed me because I was one of the Branded. I was too young to know that was why, of course: I'm sure this little girl doesn't know the difference, either. I asked how old she was... because perhaps she'll even be too young to remember."

Although the implication was clear—Soren _hadn't_ been too young to remember—Oscar thought for a moment that he'd meant that the little girl was Branded, too: even upon realizing the mistake, he found himself looking between Soren and the child.

Both had dark hair, of course, but that was where the similarity ended. The tactician was thin and sharp-featured, with skin so pale as to be almost translucent, where the girl was chubby and pink-cheeked with rosebud lips. Moreover, her round face and bouncing raven locks exuded an unmistakable aura of good health and happiness: whatever her trials had been with that mad woman, they had obviously been very short. Oscar could see no obvious damage besides the bruise on her face.

As Oscar looked up, the longing expression had returned to Soren's face. With a little inward smile, Oscar shifted over on the log and lifted the girl up, placing her in Soren's lap before the tactician could say anything or resist. She yawned, and momentarily rubbed one fist in her eye; then immediately she nestled into the elbow of her newest beorc protector, and resumed her slumber.

* * *

Even now, watching Soren disappear into the throne room with Ranulf, Oscar could recall the look on the tactician's face. At first it had been pained and a little panicky—as if he were afraid his very hands might hurt the girl—and he had been very still. Then, haltingly and almost warily, a small smile had appeared, the crimson gaze turning soft in the firelight: and he had put his arms around the girl as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The little girl was currently yanking on Oscar's ear, evidently trying to get leverage to see over his shoulder. She squealed in delight as he swung her up and placed her on his shoulders, and he felt her chubby hands twist in his hair.

This was all fun and games... but what was he going to do now? Oscar walked back toward the courtyard, wondering. He couldn't take much more time off before returning to the Knights: his letter should have reached Melior by now, and he'd said he would be returning in two weeks. Two days of that were gone already: it would take about a week to get back to Melior, less if he rode alone. That left five days in which—it broke his heart even to think of it—to find the girl someplace to stay.

Here, in Gallia? Oscar looked around at passing citizens, absently putting extra spring in his step, to the little girl's satisfaction. No, it seemed as if she didn't much care for laguz, and what would any of the cats want with a beorc child? It seemed more practical to take her back to Crimea.

At last, a bittersweet realization came over him. The obvious answer was to take her to the Mercenaries. Titania and Mist (to be truthful, most of the company) would spoil her absolutely rotten: perhaps the presence of a child would bring the group the vitality it needed so badly. Rhys and Rolf knew all of the families in the area: they might be able to find the girl a home. To Oscar it seemed like a perfectly reasonable plan.

"What do you think of joining a group of mercenaries, sweetie?" he asked, more to convince himself than because he thought she could hear him. It would be horribly painful to return home, only to depart alone for Melior, knowing that he was leaving behind yet another loved one.

"I see," said a dry voice behind him. "The two of you couldn't have one of your own, so you decided to adopt."

Oscar turned to see Ranulf, finally relaxed and grinning. "Not exactly." He felt the little girl's hands tighten in his hair once more, and the movement of her little chest—pressed against the back of his head—quickened.

"Doesn't like me much, does she?" Ranulf said lightly, mismatched eyes looking at the girl. "Do you think it's just me, or laguz in general?"

"Like I said, I don't think she likes much of anyone right now," Oscar answered. He hesitated, then let go of one of the little girl's ankles to offer a hand. "I'm Oscar, by the way: we really weren't afforded a chance to talk during the wars."

"Not so much," Ranulf agreed. As they shook hands, Oscar felt the little girl's grip loosen. "So, dare I ask how you really picked her up?"

"We, er..." Oscar sighed, wondering how to explain. He had no desire to talk about that crazy woman, or Soren killing her; if he himself hadn't been there, it would seem a monstrous thing. "The simple explanation is that we heard her crying, and went to help. It was just yesterday morning."

Ranulf nodded absently; his eyes were on the little girl. Abruptly he grinned, stepping closer. Oscar couldn't see the girl's face, but her hand stretched out and began patting Ranulf's blue head, her other fingers clinging tightly to his own hair. There was a giggle, and she grabbed the cat's ear.

"Well, I guess she's not scared anymore," Ranulf said quite happily, as his ear was yanked. "I'm not very good with beorc ages, but doesn't she seem a little old not to be talking?"

"That's what I thought," Oscar agreed. "Soren thinks she's deaf. I don't even know her name."

"Hmm," was the only reply. It was just like it had been with Rolf, Oscar thought. He immediately felt a companionable liking for the cat, just because the little girl had decided she wasn't scared of him.

But Ranulf obviously wasn't thinking of the little beorc playing the bongos on his fluffy head. His expression was suddenly pensive, and a little bit guilty. "Do you..." he said, then hesitated. Oscar raised his eyebrows querulously.

Finally, Ranulf blurted out, "He's looking for his family? Here? Does he...does he think he'll find his parents in Gallia?"

Oscar wanted to laugh helplessly, and admit that he was the last person who'd know. But Ranulf already looked embarrassed for his own curiosity, so the knight shrugged. "I think he merely wanted to start with friendly faces, and close by. None of the other laguz seemed to like him so much as Skrimir. But I don't really know."

That was the understatement of the year, and Ranulf snorted. "Well, if this doesn't work, he can always go talk with Micaiah. She's made a living out of the skills her laguz blood gave her."

The thought hadn't occurred to Oscar: then again, Micaiah was the queen of a country hundreds of miles away, and a journey into Daein this time of year would be harsh. He wondered if Soren would even think of it...

"Well, anyway, I've gone and said too much," Ranulf admitted cheerfully. "Excuse me, miss, but I've got to go." Reaching up, he dislodged the girl's hand from his hair, but shook it. To Oscar, he added, "It was nice to see you again, especially in peace-time."

"Likewise," Oscar said warmly, and shook the proffered hand. Ranulf waved good-bye to the girl; Oscar couldn't see anything from below her, but from the cat's grin it appeared that she reciprocated.

* * *

A short time later, Soren silently came out from the main hall, looking no more enlightened than when he'd gone in. Oscar stood up from the bench, keeping the girl in the corner of his eye: she'd abandoned him to play nearby with a laguz child of about the same age, and he wasn't sure the little tiger wouldn't transform in a moment of excitement.

"Skrimir and Caneghis knew nothing," Soren said, without prelude. He halted next to Oscar, his eyes on the girl. "I'd completely forgotten that the brand can skip whole generations. All they could suggest was that my particular mark looks nothing like those belonging to the few Branded they've ever met. My best bet is simply to go back to Begnion or Serenes, to find out the typical appearance of the brands themselves."

Oscar wanted to say something about the mark on the young dragon king's forehead, but didn't want to seem presumptuous. "Sounds reasonable," he finally said. The words felt lame, as usual, but it didn't seem to bother Soren.

"Skrimir has generously offered me Ranulf's companionship on the journey into Begnion," the tactician continued, his face a mask of total indifference. The little girl squealed in delight as the laguz child quite literally picked her up off the ground, swinging her in circles. "I suppose we'll be parting now."

Oscar was startled to hear regret in Soren's voice. It shouldn't have surprised him, considering how bizarrely close they had become in the last several days. What did come as a shock was the naked loneliness in the tactician's eyes, especially as he looked at the little girl. "Yes, I guess so. I've, um... I've thought about taking her back to Greil's Retreat. If she likes me, she'll love Titania and Mist."

Soren just nodded unhappily. _He's probably just miserable about traveling all the way to Begnion with Ranulf_, Oscar thought unkindly. After all this... would they just say goodbye? Just like that?

Indignation overcame him: time to call the tactician's bluff. "Well, I wish you the best of luck," Oscar said neutrally, and went over to the little girl.

"Sorry," he said to the small tiger, who frowned and put his hands on his hips as Oscar took the little girl by the hand. "I have to take her home now."

The boy sighed, somewhat precociously. "All right... tell her it was nice to meet her!" he said fiercely, and ran off.

The little girl watched him go, her frown just as fierce; as she looked up at Oscar, the scowl turned into a pout. "I'm sorry," he laughed, boosting her up and tossing her in the air. She giggled, anger forgotten. "I really think you'll like where we're going, though."

She settled into his arms happily, apparently tired out from her exciting romp with a new friend. Taking a deep breath, Oscar prepared to walk away.

There was the sudden noise of footsteps, and he felt a hand on his arm. "Wait," Soren's voice said. Something inside Oscar gave a little thrill of victory, and not altogether just because he'd been right. The tactician looked terribly ashamed of something, but determined.

The little girl turned around, already sleepy. Soren was just tall enough for her to reach out and touch his cheek with a chubby little hand. So quietly that Oscar could barely hear, the tactician murmured, "I'm sorry," and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. Then he looked up at Oscar, biting his lip. The gratitude in his crimson eyes was unmistakable, but as always, it seemed that words were failing him at the right moment. The knight wanted to sigh.

When Soren finally raised a hand, as if for a formal handshake, Oscar felt that had been enough. "Oh, don't be stupid," he said gently, and put an arm around the boy. "I really do wish you the best of luck."

They embraced only briefly, but when Soren pulled away, his face was once more composed: not cold, but at least grave. "Thank you," he said firmly. "I can't express how grateful I am for your having brought me this far."

"If you can't find them," Oscar replied, the words coming out before he could stop them, "you know where to go."

The words sank between them: finally, the tactician smiled. It was a very tiny expression, almost indiscernibly friendly, but there was no mistaking its genuineness. "Yes, I suppose I do."


	7. Different Senses

We knew Naesala was coming.

Too boring, these are filler chapters.

Sorry this is taking so long, I have _problems_ with finishing stories.

* * *

~~ Chapter Six: Different Senses ~~

* * *

You had a to place a certain amount of trust in someone after they'd flown across a river (and most of an army) carrying you in their talons. Ranulf might not have always liked Tibarn, but he trusted the hawk king's judgment almost as much as Caneghis'.

It was just odd, he thought, that a lack of discretion on Tibarn's part could only hurt one person: Soren. Why the hell should Ranulf care? He watched, unable to answer that question, as the boy quietly explained his question to Tibarn.

Would the hawk know anything more than had Ranulf's own king? Privately, the cat doubted it. Stretching and yawning, he looked away, feeling both bored and nervous, as well as more than a little tired. It had been a long journey from Gallia to Serenes, fraught with bad weather, and Ranulf had spent most of it transformed, loping along next to a horse. At least that had kept the possibility of conversation to a minimum. Ranulf couldn't think of anything worse than a long, awkward silence with Soren.

With some amusement, he thought back to the confrontation in Gallia. Skrimir's crushed expression had been priceless, his features falling as he realized he had no information whatsoever to give his favorite little beorc. Caneghis hadn't known much more, either.

It hadn't seemed to surprise anyone (except Skrimir) that Soren wanted to know his own bloodline. Caneghis had shaken his head, looking a little regretful. "I can only tell you what I have observed in my own country. The true experts are, as you probably know, the Begnion nobles and priests in Sienne. Then, too, the birds are much more knowledgeable on this subject than I. The herons, especially, might be able to aid you simply by their intuitive nature."

When Soren brought up the subject of the brand skipping generations, Ranulf had left and distracted himself by speaking to the tactician's companions, the green-clad knight and the little girl. It seemed to be a completely impossible task, in Ranulf's eyes: the boy had no idea how old he even was, had no memory of his parents, and didn't even know if he was even a first-generation Branded. But Caneghis, true to his philanthropic nature, had suggested Soren go to Serenes.

And so Ranulf had ended up as Soren's companion on the road to Begnion, to the restored Serenes Forest. Skrimir had thought nothing of it, and in fact had grumpily complained that as king, he should have the great honor of such an escort.

But Caneghis had communicated, more through expression than words, his apology for the fact that the duty invariably fell to Ranulf, as the ranking laguz who was friendliest with both the bird tribes and, so far as such courtesies extended, Soren. Ranulf sensed that, like himself, the former lion king had an innate distaste for the whole affair, even as he sympathized with Soren's need to know his parentage.

There was a reason the laguz disliked and ignored the Branded. It was their scent. Wolves probably had the hardest time dealing with half-blood children, Ranulf thought, with their incredible sense of smell. But even the cats could recognize it.

To Ranulf, Branded children smelled familiar, as would an olfactory association with a long-forgotten memory of childhood. But they invariably smelled uncomfortably strange and unidentifiable, too, because of the beorc blood. Ranulf felt that he knew which race the little tactician's scent belonged to: but he'd be damned if he could put his finger on it. He figured that if the boy stood next to his birth parents it would be easy, but until then...

There was a noise of something crashing to the floor in the next room, startling him into a crouch. "Naesala!" came a sharp female voice, followed by a string of reprimands in the old tongue.

"Well, clumsy me," said another familiar voice, but mildly. "Hope this wasn't valuable."

Ranulf snorted aloud, despite himself. He'd forgotten that all the bird tribes lived in the same place now, ostensibly in peace and harmony. "What...?" said Naesala's voice, and the familiarly long, angular face emerged from around the corner. He recognized the cat and grinned guilelessly, coming through the doorway, shattered pieces of crockery in one hand. "Well, well, Leanne. What brings you to this part of the continent, Ranulf?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know," Ranulf answered warmly, standing straight. He remembered a time when he and most of the other laguz had hated the duplicitous raven. But in truth, the cat found Naesala quite likeable, especially since affairs between the bird tribes had been settled.

Leanne came into the room, glowing as usual like midday sunshine. "Ranulf!" she exclaimed, vexed expression vanishing at once into pure pleasure. The cat almost felt embarrassed as she unabashedly hugged him, as if he deserved such a greeting.

"Hello, Leanne." His eyes traveled to the scar on the raven's forehead, left there by his own claws. "But I guess I should offer congratulations while I'm here: I've heard that you finally had the children's naming ceremonies."

Naesala looked at once proud and somewhat sheepish, an expression that looked completely out of place on that normally arrogant face. Leanne merely smiled, looking sideways at her husband with wry eyes; Ranulf wanted to laugh at how much it made her look like Reyson. "Yes. We chose Maehdros and Lillia, nice family names," Naesala said. Then he squinted, looking into the adjoining chamber, at the hawk king. "Uh... call me crazy, but isn't that the Crimean army's erstwhile tactician talking to Tibarn?"

Ranulf couldn't help it: he rolled his eyes. "Yes. That's..." He scratched his chin, wondering if he should say it. "That's why I'm here, actually." He was beginning to wonder what on earth Tibarn could possibly have to say to the boy that was taking this long.

The raven eyed him, with a lazy grin. "Don't tell me you've up and joined the famous mercenaries, Ranulf. Or is the little half-dragon moving into Serenes with us?"

"Oh, Naesala," Leanne said, frowning and whacking her husband on the shoulder. "Be kind." The cat didn't understand what Naesala meant, and gaped at the two of them for a moment. When comprehension finally dawned, the shock was almost electric.

"He's a... he's part _what_?" Ranulf demanded. He wanted to know how Naesala had even known that Soren was one of the Branded. Most birds couldn't smell a dead animal at fifty paces, much less the difference between a half-blood and a beorc, and Ranulf had never seen a bird laguz do more than shiver in unconscious discomfort near a Branded.

Naesala just looked at him, his expression seeming to simply say, _Duh_. "Well he's not a raven, I know that much. And he's obviously not part cat, or you wouldn't be here. Besides that, _look_ at the kid. Cut off that ponytail, and who does he look like?" The raven tapped his own forehead meaningfully.

Ranulf, shocked, looked back at Soren, who was still speaking with Tibarn. Cut off that ponytail... he tried to focus, and felt like he'd been slapped in the face when he realized what Naesala meant. It was probably the perpetual expression of darkly brooding misery, along with the voluminous tattered robes concealing the tactician's skinny figure, that disguised the truth. But Ranulf couldn't help but see it now: with that mark on his forehead, the same pointed chin and small features... the boy looked just like the young dragon king, Kurthnaga.

"Wow," he said, feeling somewhat dazed and very stupid. "Did you..." He looked at Leanne, whose clear green gaze was fixed upon Tibarn and his guest.

The raven snorted. "No, I don't have to. You really didn't guess that the moment you saw him? Geez." Then Naesala grinned, good-naturedly. "Look, I'm going to go clean up this mess before I cut my hands off with it. But nice seeing you again."

Ranulf managed to say something in the same manner, but he hardly noticed as the raven made his retreat. "Good-bye, Ranulf," Leanne said cheerfully, in the same lilting accent she always used when speaking the common tongue. "Please come by more often?"

"Okay, sure," Ranulf said, furious to find himself blushing. As Leanne left, her white dress floating just above the flagstones, he crossed his arms, unable to stop himself from staring across the room.

His attention must have been too obvious: almost at the same time, the hawk king and his diminutive companion paused and looked over. Ranulf felt his cheeks flame, and he sheepishly strolled to their side. It was probably only fifteen seconds, but it felt like forever.

"Er, any luck?" he asked, unsure how to broach the topic. Damn Naesala! Why hadn't he stuck around to explain it himself? It was just like him to bring down lightning and thunder, then vanish with a grin.

Tibarn just raised his brows and looked at him. "No, Ranulf, no luck," he said after a moment. "If you've got something to say, just say it."

Ranulf had to laugh. The hawk knew him too well. "I, er..." He looked at Soren, whose expression (as usual) wavered between distaste and complete indifference. How did you say something this obvious? Turning back to Tibarn, the cat hedged, "I could be wrong, and feel more than a bit stupid for not having noticed before, but... I think it would behoove Soren to pay the dragons a visit."

That had probably been rude, referring to the boy as if he weren't there. But, as always, Soren didn't seem capable of taking offense: in fact, he placidly raised one eyebrow and inquired, "Why?"

When Ranulf hesitated, Tibarn glanced down at the boy, his eyes sharp. Then, with a reaction of surprise so profound that Ranulf felt a little better, the hawk king started and exclaimed, "Well, I'll be damned."

Ranulf grinned. "Yeah, I didn't notice, either," he said, somewhat dryly. "Naesala just popped in and drew my attention to it."

Soren, unwilted despite double stares from the two laguz, said somewhat acidly, "Drew your attention to _what_? I suppose I shouldn't assume you mean my brand?"

"More your face, really," Tibarn explained, more kindly than Ranulf would have expected. "Obviously Naesala is better at recognizing family resemblances than we are. I would say you probably share some blood with the dragon king, Kurthnaga. Even your marks are similar."

An expression of disappointment flashed briefly over Soren's features: before vanishing into placidity, it made the boy almost look as if he were going to cry. Ranulf could only assume it was in contemplation of a journey to Goldoa. "Perhaps you're right." Then a different light entered Soren's dark eyes, and now Ranulf fancied it might be vague excitement.

The cat wondered if being half-dragon was an attractive concept to the tactician: any step closer to finding his heritage, no matter how small, was probably welcome. Besides that, the dragons were undoubtedly the most powerful of all laguz races. To go from an abandoned and somewhat frail little beorc, to a member of the dragon tribe... a powerful race, one the beorc left be. Ranulf thought even Soren could be excited about something like that.

"I will have an escort provided for you to Goldoa," Tibarn said, folding his arms again. Obviously he considered the subject closed. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to attend. It was good to see you again. Please stay as long as you like, I'll have a room made up for you."

With that, the hawk bowed his head briefly and left. Ranulf shifted awkwardly, wondering what to say. Tibarn was worse than Naesala: decide the matter and dump it in someone else's lap.

There had been no time for Ranulf to offer his own services as Soren's companion—not that he really wanted the job again, but it seemed rude to simply leave. They'd spent a miserable and mostly silent six weeks together: shouldn't he at least offer a "good luck" to the tactician?

The boy was still standing, absently staring at the door through which Tibarn had disappeared. "Um," Ranulf said faintly. "So, will you go back the same way we came, or try cutting through the Kauku Caves?"

Soren looked at him with a strange expression, at least half astonishment. _Shit_, Ranulf thought, wincing inwardly. Their trip through the Caves had been successful for only one reason: Soren had been telling Ike what to do at every turn, saving countless Gallian lives in the process. Ranulf was practically rubbing salt into a raw wound. "I mean, it would save time, and you already know which way to go..." he added hastily, floundering. "I would... you know... but I guess you'll already have someone with you." _Oh shut up_, he thought miserably.

"Thank you," Soren said, quite serenely. "I was grateful for a companion on my journey here, Ranulf, even if we didn't talk much. You were always someone Ike trusted, which should be enough for me. I hope you have a safe journey back to Gallia."

And just as abruptly as Tibarn and Naesala, the little tactician held out a hand in farewell—Ranulf shook it out of sheer instinct—and left the room, leaving the cat with his mouth open and his brain whirling.

He shook his head, walking from the room. It was bad enough to have Naesala waltz in and confuse him: now Soren was eloquent and polite. What a completely surreal day. Ranulf felt a need to find Janaff and talk inanities or spar until he could think straight again.


	8. Entanglements

A/N. Everyone who loves Soren loves dragons... except me. Kurth is cute but I hate the rest. And this chapter being total crap proves it. Has enough time passed for Ena's kid to be this old? Probably not, Naesala's kids are supposed to be toddlers. _Too bad_.

* * *

~~ Chapter Seven: Entanglements ~~

* * *

Ena had an ominous feeling before she even entered the hall. The back of her neck was prickling in a way she hadn't felt in years, since before the birth of her son. It was entirely unpleasant.

So she was surprised when their mysterious visitor turned out to be the diminutive tactician employed by the Greil Mercenaries. Kurthnaga was already speaking with the boy, who seemed not to have aged a day since Ena had last seen him. Then again, she had not paid much attention to beorc matters during the war against the goddess.

What could possibly be the reason for such a visit, especially with the boy's general so conspicuously absent? He was accompanied only by two very discomfited hawks, both of whom Ena remembered from the Crimean Liberation Army.

Kurthnaga said something, ostensibly a polite query as to where the former Crimean general was: Ena suddenly knew why Soren was here as soon as her good-brother spoke.

The softly curved brows, so easily spiked into furrowed anger; the light, carefully polite voices; the crimson eyes, one pair always veiled, those of the other gentle and soft; the smooth, easily parted hair, framing a sharp-featured face. Oh, there were certain differences... but Ena actually felt herself freeze at the two of them facing one another, as if a matched pair, and she wondered if anyone else had noticed.

No. Conversation had continued; Gareth was paying more attention to the guard posted at the gate, and her own grandfather had not yet appeared. The hawks seemed to be doing their best to disappear into the wall. Ena, staring at Kurthnaga, thought suddenly of her lost fiancé and the dowager queen of Daein. She had to keep from staggering back a step.

This was Almedha's lost son: not Pelleas, but _Soren_.

"Mama!" came the sudden cry, as if summoned by her own heart. Ena turned to see her son running gleefully into the room: Nasir stood in the doorway, almost unobservable.

As he came to her, she seized up the boy, named for his father, encircling him with her arms and pressing her lips to his forehead, to the small mark there. "Mama, you're smushing me," he said indignantly, squirming free.

"I'm sorry, my love," she said absently, boosting him up. Rajaion threw his arms around her neck and began calling out to his uncle. Ena barely noticed: her head was spinning.

"You said that your commander… simply left?" Kurthnaga was asking, face lowering into confusion: and, if Ena wasn't mistaken, anger.

"Yes," said the beorc boy; she sensed grief beneath his deliberately cool tone. "He said nothing, only mentioning that he could no longer remain in Crimea."

Ena forced herself to move, to approach the dais, to set her son down and kiss him one last time, as Kurthnaga's face darkened. How much more similar those expressions became! "I suppose it makes sense. The lords of Crimea were not exactly… gracious in their acceptance the first time Ike saved them. Further reliance on a poor mercenary captain would not improve their disposition."

It did not escape Ena's glance that the young tactician winced visibly when Ike's name was spoken aloud, clasping one hand over the other wrist. She wondered when her good-brother would get around to asking why the boy was here.

Then she realized. The serenity had returned to Kurthnaga's face, and he glanced over at her; his lips compressed ever so slightly.

_He already knew._

Did the boy know too? Was that why he was here?

Ena's grandfather finally spoke, entering the room; in another moment she would have blurted out the questions. "Hmm. Soren," said Nasir, approaching Ena. She felt his hand circle her shoulders; it helped to alleviate her uneasiness, as did his calm voice. "What reason have we for such an unexpected pleasure?"

The expression on Soren's face didn't subtly change: it went straight from careful displeasure to a black glare. Some current of understanding, resented by both parties, was running between Ena's grandfather and the small figure standing so defiantly before them. Kurthnaga obviously sensed it as well, his eyes flickering warily from one to another: Ena wondered how long her grandfather had known.

"Yes, Nasir," said Soren, his light voice very, very flat. "You have certainly guessed why I am here. I have already visited the bird tribes, as well as Gallia: I was told that I may be part dragon...and given certain hints about why."

His eyes flicked unabashedly between all the dragons, the marks appearing on their foreheads. "I see," he added, just as his gaze turned to Ena and her son, "that Ranulf was probably on the right track."

She felt a sudden urge to grab Rajaion up again, or even to throw herself over him. Her son had already sensed the tension in the room; under even such light scrutiny, he stuck a thumb in his mouth and buried his face in Ena's dress. She reached down, caressed his hair.

They were all silent, for a long moment. Ena looked up once more: Kurthnaga's face was back to a careful blankness. _How did he find out?_ she wondered. Pelleas wasn't one of the Branded: perhaps he had told Almedha? Nasir had known all along, had told Ena that Ike's tactician was half-laguz, although at the time her grandfather had now known which race. Perhaps Kurthnaga had merely put two and two together, just as Ena had done a few moments ago.

Ena risked one more glance at the slight, raven-haired figure before them; the crimson eyes were fixed on Kurthnaga, unwavering. What would the young king of dragons say?

As they all waited, breathless—Ena fancied that even her grandfather was uneasy—Kurthnaga slowly stepped down from the dais, approaching their taciturn visitor.

"Do you remember the young man Izuka set up as the king of Daein?" he finally said, quietly.

Their visitor gave a tiny sniff, almost disdainfully. "Yes, Statesman Pelleas. He abdicated the throne to Queen Micaiah, did he not?" There was a pause, and Soren's intense gaze didn't waver. "Ike told me that Pelleas' mother... that the Lady Almedha was how Ashnard tricked your brother into coming to Daein. That she and her son were dear to him."

Ena felt her breath catch, as if the boy had socked her in the stomach. His gaze flicked to her face: to Ena's astonishment, his eyes turned down respectfully, his expression regretful. So he remembered that Rajaion had been Ena's fiancé.

Furiously she wondered how Soren could _not know_. Were half-beorc always so oblivious to things concerning their own lives? Or was he willfully blinding himself to the truth? The boy had spoken of Almedha's son, yet seemed to be blithely ignorant of the facts that Almedha was Rajaion's sister, and that he, Soren, _was_ that son.

Only a moment passed. Kurthnaga hesitated, then spoke. "Yes. All of that is true. The Lady Almedha lives with Pelleas now, in Nevassa. I think that if you go there... he might have the answers you seek."

Oh, so that was how Kurthnaga was going to play it. Ena almost felt disappointed. She, as with most of the other laguz, had not liked this little tactician, and liked him even less now that she knew his awful heritage. Just now, shocked back into her grief for Rajaion, she would have enjoyed seeing this boy's reaction to the shocking news that he was Ashnard's son.

But the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. The dragons had enough problems of their own, and it was better, if less philanthropical, to dump this particular problem into Almedha's lap. Ena still pitied the woman, but it had been Almedha's mistake to even consort with Ashnard. And perhaps the boy would take the news better by simply meeting his mother.

Soren obviously didn't miss the vague nature of Kurthnaga's reply: but Ena had to give the boy credit for knowing his place and demanding nothing more. He bowed, his great black—no, Ena corrected herself, dark green—cloak of hair obscuring his face momentarily. Then he said expressionlessly, "I will go to Nevassa. Thank you, my lord, for your help."

Ena couldn't bear to watch any longer. As the usual pleasantries were exchanged, Kurthnaga offering the boy sanctuary until he next set out, she reached down and took her son's hand. Rajaion seemed unusually happy to be placidly led from the room, his thumb still in his mouth and his eyes still wide.

As she stepped past her grandfather, his gaze arrested her. "Ena," he said softly, "you don't think...?"

She was startled to read hesitance, even guilt in his eyes: he had wanted as much as she to see Kurthnaga spill the truth. Still... "No," she said, firmly. "No, I think it's best for the boy to find out himself."

Nasir looked over, mouth compressed. "A journey to Daein, in midwinter," he said finally, tonelessly. "He'll probably leave before we can even arrange an escort."

Ena didn't know what to say, but in any case had no intention of suggesting anything beneficial to Soren. For all she cared, he could freeze to death in the Daein snow, and rid Tellius of a potential power struggle. Goddess... could she even imagine the chaos in Daein if he wanted to claim his birthright, if Almedha set him up the way she'd done with Pelleas?

Ena shivered. It seemed unlikely, but she was glad to scoop up her son, and cuddle him against her as she left those cold thoughts behind.


	9. Mother and Son

This isn't the final chapter, but it's starting to get conclusory. I hope Soren's first narration isn't too awkward.

Also it's snowing like hell here in Pittsburgh and I almost killed myself trying to get up the hill to law school. I feel a certain sympathy with a certain cranky, cold tactician.

Edit: I went through the forthcoming Chapter Nine and corrected all the Almehdas to Almedhas, then I forgot to go back and fix them in this chapter. Thanks to a review ) they're correct now. (Whatever, I hate her anyway.)

* * *

~~ Chapter Eight: Mother and Son ~~

* * *

As Soren passed over the threshold of the hall, he could feel Pelleas' mild blue eyes on his back, watching him step into the vast, deathly silent space. Frustrated and sick to death of his own ignorance, Soren cursed under his breath, striding away quickly across the echoing marble floor.

Kurthnaga had told him to speak with Pelleas, saying that the young former king could give Soren the information he sought. But Pelleas had told him nothing. Oh, Soren had certainly learned things. Izuka had chosen the wrong orphan (or rather, had chosen an orphan at random) to stand as prince, and Pelleas wasn't the Lady Almedha's true son. Soren wasn't sure if Pelleas was even Branded. Yet Pelleas had not so much as mentioned his own place in the Daein royalty, much less the possibility that he and Soren were alike in that most crucial way.

_What the hell does Pelleas have to do with me?_ Soren thought furiously. There was something Kurthnaga hadn't told him, something the dragons wanted to avoid directly divulging. Soren had been bewildered to see hesitance—perhaps guilt?—in even Nasir's eyes. And now Pelleas wouldn't say anything, either; the Daein statesman had beat about the bush with queries on Crimea, then had sent him forth with the vague, "Speak to the Lady Almedha."

It was, Soren thought angrily, like a continent-wide passing of the buck. First Gallia, then Serenes, then the dragons, and even now Pelleas. He only hoped that Almedha would have some kind of answer for him. If she chased him to another corner of Tellius, he would probably just crawl out in the snow and hope no one found him.

The room at the end of the hall was softly lit; twilight was fading, leaving only the lamps. Soren stepped up to the half-open door, knocking lightly. "Hello?" he called, wondering why his irritation had given him such courage. "I apologize for the intrusion, Lady Almedha. Statesman Pelleas said I should speak with you."

The figure sitting on the terrace rose; staring at the stars for a moment, the former queen of Daein turned. The last time Soren had seen her—just after the war, in Ike's company—Almedha had been wearing a veil. It was pulled back now.

Shock hit him in the stomach like a fist. The small mark on her temple; the flowing, forest-green hair; the serene, delicately featured face; he was just amazed that he hadn't realized sooner. "You're—" The words he had been about to say suddenly failed him, and he simply stared at Kurthnaga's sister, the ex-princess of Goldoa.

* * *

To be perfectly honest, he found it surprising that he was able to talk at all. The journey from Goldoa had been immeasurably long, as well as silent. Soren had been unable to bear the thought of yet another grudging companion on what would be a miserable journey to Daein, and had fled Castle Goldoa with hardly another word to the dragons, uneasy with their opacity and certain that they did not want him there.

He stuck to the major highways, but traveling unaccompanied on foot, he hadn't even bothered to keep track of what day (or what month) it was. He'd slept under bushes near the roadside, had spent a few nights in the forests wrapped in his cloak. Accustomed to spending as little time as possible with others, and generally cold no matter where he slept, Soren was little more uncomfortable or lonely than he had been at Greil's Retreat.

When he'd run out of money—which, money being the fickle thing it was, he did almost immediately—he'd begged. The shame of it had faded quickly, his silent old habits coming back as if he'd never met Ike, or those people in the Crimean church.

The difference now was that most Tellians, bursting with the repletion of a bountiful fall harvest, were both gracious and generous. It had kept him from starving as he entered the bitter winter mountains near the border of Daein, and several nights he'd even been given a blanket and bedroll near someone's hearth.

Soren had halted only once, at the border on the Riven Bridge. At first he didn't know why he couldn't move on; then he realized this was where he had killed General Petrine. Her last words burned in his ears, the strangely patriotic arrogance and anger turned so cold. _"Your Majesty... forgive me, please... oh, I don't want to die... I'm so scared..."_

As the flame of her violet eyes, fixed on him pleadingly, had slowly faded, he had for the first time questioned his own wisdom in killing an enemy.

He had walked up to the fort's entrance, to the spot where she had fallen all those years ago, writhing in pain from the effect of Soren's Elfire spell. Only one other Branded besides Petrine had openly revealed his secret to Soren; Stefan was somewhere in Begnion, rounding up others of their "kind." The thought repulsed Soren, especially as grief for a fallen enemy general froze his heart. Petrine's self-reliant arrogance had been vastly more attractive than the thought of rejected, lonely half-breeds sobbing on one another's shoulders somewhere out in the desert.

Where had she come from, and how had she risen so high in the Daein ranks? Her brand had hardly been subtle, a bright green tattoo against the cream skin of her breast: Ashnard must have known. Soren, sleeping in the forest nearby that night, wondered and wondered. Perhaps Ashnard had merely included her amongst his retinue of strong fighters, and she had proved herself worthy of command—just like Zelgius. Perhaps he had thought her a spirit charmer, in the same manner as Soren's teacher.

But he wanted to ask Petrine himself, to gain insight on that natural confidence she had radiated. The fact that Soren had been the one to bring her down with his own tome gnawed frustratingly at his conscience. There must have been a way to convince her, to recruit her into the Crimean army.

More than anything, he simply craved _comfort_; it didn't matter whether it was from his own parents—wherever they were, if he ever found them—or from someone who knew what it was like to be one of the Branded, and had accordingly adjusted. That aching hunger kept him at the Riven Bridge for another two days; finally, quite literally starving and in dire need of physical nourishment, he had at last moved into Daein.

The people of that country were as kind as the Crimeans had been, so heartbreakingly generous that Soren found himself bereft of words to thank them. Wordlessly, he had sought a healstaff and used it to aid the poor, generally illiterate families of the outlying cities—the beggars of the streets looked no less tattered than did he, in his ragged and stained robe. But the families seemed to be grateful for his learning, and asked no questions.

The middle plains of Daein, mostly uninhabited, had been a trial of strength: he was surprised to find that he even had such fortitude. During his last journey through Daein, when he had been stumbling with exhaustion and cold, Soren had only to look up and see Ike, and a fire would light itself within him. Sure, he was the lead tactician for an entire army, too: but that just meant sitting as close as possible to Ike at the campfire that night, so they could unfold the map onto their laps, brushing away snowflakes that obscured its images as they pondered which way to go next.

This time, at night the snow would half-bury him in the crannies and hillocks he sought out in the countryside; during the day he walked from before dawn until long after the sun had set, collapsing in such shelter as he could find only when he couldn't take another step. Those four days had been the longest of his life: it was impossible to avoid the heart-rending memories of Ike, since there was nothing else to think about except the vast white coldness.

But at last, the turrets and spires of Nevassa had shown themselves over the far hills. Quickening his pace, Soren found its peasants just as joyful and welcoming as the rest. Micaiah had led the country through yet another year of great prosperity, and even as winter closed its icy claws around the capital city, the Daein people began celebrating the solstice with great parties running with rivers of ale and platters of meat, the houses draped in garlands of silver and red berries.

Soren had felt a compulsive and uneasy urge to avoid being drawn into the revelry of the inns and bars: he spoke to almost no one once he entered the city's gate. In fact, until he spoke directly to Pelleas, no more than a word or two at a time had passed Soren's lips for more than a month.

* * *

Now the questions he wanted to ask, easily spoken to the awkward, shy ex-king, had fled him: the words crowded to the back of his mind, huddled like fearful sheep evading a wolf. Soren bit his lip, trying to summon them back.

Almedha's only reaction had been to stop breathing, to become as placidly still as a mill pond, crimson eyes fixed on him. She said nothing, one slim hand slowly clenching on the fabric of her gown. The sick, annoyed feeling in Soren's stomach was turning to heavy dread: some realization was growing in the back of his mind. Soren concentrated on the woman before him, refusing to let the thought coalesce.

Finally managing to collect himself and gather the words once more—it had been simple instinct, ever since he had become the _de facto_ tactician for the Greil Mercenaries, to forcibly appear as cool as possible in front of strangers—Soren took a deep breath, forcing the words to arrange themselves to his bidding. "I hope... I hope you have a moment, Lady Almedha."

He was about to ask whether or not she remembered him: but then the sarcastic voice in the back of his head shrewdly demanded how he would introduce himself if she did not. Former staff officer from the Greil Mercenaries? Erstwhile tactician for the Crimean Liberation Army? Or perhaps, _Hello, your brother told me to come here. What isn't Pelleas telling me?_ Absurdly, he thought of Aimee: he had managed to sweet-talk her on numerous occasions. Where had those graceful sentences come from? Where had the eloquence he'd used speaking to Ranulf in Serenes fled?

So he merely queried, "I have a question to which Statesman Pelleas did not possess an answer. With your permission...?"

She said nothing, still standing in the middle of the carpet as if petrified. Either she had nothing to tell him, or something else was wrong. Her eyes—those of a stranger, yet eerily familiar—searched his face, her own features stiff with awkward pain.

Finally the sickness got the better of him: Soren clenched his teeth and bowed. "I apologize. You are obviously occupied. I shall leave you, Lady Almedha."

He turned, preparing to flee, but only moved one step before her voice arrested him. "Please stay... oh, please, don't go!" Almedha suddenly said, words finally bursting from her, surprising him into immobility. Her high, quaveringly childlike voice was familiar, too: yet he could not have said why. "I don't know what has brought you here, but... there's something you must know! Something no one else can tell, not even my dear Pelleas!" She began to cry, covering her face.

Soren stared at the dowager queen of Daein, his emotions flickering between chill fear and a wary curiosity. What could she have meant by that? She clearly remembered who he was... the thought he had been forcing down began to grow again, quite against his will.

There was a silence that seemed to last forever, interrupted only by her quiet sobbing. At last Almedha spoke, her words muffled only marginally by the hands held over her face; she looked up, barely able to meet his gaze. "My… my son..."

The words wrenched something in his stomach; Soren closed his eyes. But nothing happened, no sudden burst of emotion at his suspicion growing to knowledge: he simply felt cold. He could barely convince himself that she wasn't, in fact, bewailing something unrelated, such as the loss of her surrogate son Pelleas. He finally understood why Kurthnaga had sent him to Daein.

She was saying that _Soren_ was her son.

It seemed unimaginable that someone so dignified and grave as a former queen could plead; but Almedha did, actually wringing her hands. "Oh, please, speak to me!" she burst out. "I… I know you must blame me… But I did not know! I was deceived!"

Soren just stared at her: this woman had once been a princess of Goldoa, this pleading, almost pathetic figure before him? It was no wonder she had proved so pliant in the hands of the Mad King, had been, as she said, deceived by him.

That was what finally broke the layer of ice that had heretofore glazed the truth: Soren felt his hands shaking.

That was his father. His _father_.

"I..." he gasped, the shock of it drawing out that single syllable: he actually staggered back a step with the realization. This woman was his mother; Ashnard had been her husband. The Mad King had kidnapped her and forced her to have a child to lure in her brother, Ena's fiancé, and had warped Rajaion into a common wyvern. His very birth, his foul Branded blood, had caused her to lose her own birthright and abilities.

The King of Daein had done all that: the man Ike had killed at the Daein Keep. Soren had been _there_, tome and healstaff in hand. His head spun. How could he not have known before this?

He dimly saw that Almedha had stepped forward, her hands parted, tears drawing lines on her face. A terrible image drew itself across his mind: a graceful, beautiful noble, hands extended toward a ragged, filthy, exhausted beggar who shrank in fear from her. _No!_ he thought in horror, and before he knew it the word burst from his lips. "No—no!"

Almedha jerked back, as if he had struck her; he bowed his head in agony, knowing she thought he rejected her advances. There were no tears. His stomach was merely knotted and his mind wracked with the dizzying shock. It was worse than killing Petrine; it was as bad as when Ike had left; for a brief moment he almost wished to be dead.

Finally, he raised up his gaze once more, as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor. The sardonic little tactician's voice in the back of his head spoke up again, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything substantial for almost three days: but that wasn't why he felt faint. He looked up, his vision glazed. Her own crimson eyes were flowing with tears, in a Madonna's face full of love, grief, and long unlooked-for hope. He didn't have any clue what to say, but a word found itself.

"M-mother..." he said helplessly.

Then she was bent down; her arms were around him, her veil fluttering against his cheek and her comforting voice so close; Soren bent his head to her breast and wept.


	10. Home

Ughhhhh this is taking FOREVER.

Really trying not to hate Almedha. It's difficult but I'm getting there.

* * *

~~ Chapter Nine: Home ~~

* * *

The next week was an absolute blur. Weakened by the arduous journey from Goldoa, and more or less stunned into complacency, Soren slept through almost the entirety of his first four days in Nevassa. For the first time he could remember, he neither dreamed nor woke alone; his mother's hands were always clasping his fingers, softly passing through his hair, holding him steady as he rose. When he woke, he was gently led to her servants, who replaced his tattered robes, combed the mud from his hair and drenched him with warm, rose-scented water, then fed him until sleep overtook him once more.

He vaguely remembered Micaiah coming to greet him: news of a strange visitor evidently spread quickly in a snow-buried Nevassa. Soren didn't remember a word he said to her, although he had the impression that she had been very friendly and kind. He had, before leaving Goldoa, briefly thought of asking Micaiah for any advice on having grown up as one of the Parentless, but had dismissed the idea, unable to fathom how to approach the queen of Daein. As it was, she approached him: and by that time, he had found the answers he was seeking.

When he finally managed to pull himself together long enough to sit up straight, he talked with his mother, an episode that lasted the rest of the week. It began with Almedha's questions about how he had ended up in Crimea with Ike. "Were you in an orphanage?" she inquired innocently; he could see the hope in her eyes, that, like Pelleas, his life had been at least bearable without her. "Once he had my brother, Ashnard would tell me nothing, only that he had taken you away, that he had rid us of... of an unwanted child."

In the past, Soren would have withdrawn into himself silently after such a statement. But her gentle voice, pained expression, and the way she pressed his hand as she spoke, carried across the awful lie behind the words.

Finally, he managed to answer. "I'm... I'm not sure, at least early on. There was a woman who took care of me when I was very small, but I don't know where she, um, got me."

As the story unraveled, Soren tried to keep back the most painful portions: the frequent beatings by that old woman, the mage's exhausting lessons and training, and most of all his years alone. But before he knew it, Soren began to spill everything, some little details that he'd never even told Ike.

Having never been a vindictive or vengeful person, over the years Soren had cursed his faultless memory, since it only brought misery. Now, he was glad to remember everything. When he had spoken to Ike of his past, it had only been to satisfy the other young man's curiosity, to prove to Ike that his trust in Soren was warranted, and that there was a reason the tactician rarely spoke. Despite his deep trust and love for Ike, Soren had never really wanted to share his most painful secrets: he simply hadn't been able to say no.

And when Ike had betrayed him, had left him standing alone in the cold, he had never thought he would share again. He had thought the wall in his heart was bricked up forever. But talking to his mother, someone who could implicitly understand everything, Soren told the whole tale as much for his own relief as her wish to know.

What surprised him was her composure. Having briefly observed her behavior toward Pelleas, and given her first frantic greeting, Soren had been miserably prepared to deal with overprotective smothering from Almedha, which would have been almost as unbearable as aloofness. But perhaps she had always felt doubt about Pelleas being her son, and that had resulted in more mothering than was necessary. Almedha always seemed to sense Soren's mood, giving him silence when most needed, and her gentleness was of the light, sensitive kind, rather than cooing and petting.

The exception had been when he talked about revealing his secret to Ike. The memory of needlessly baring his soul was so awful that he wept as he told it; his mother placed her arms around him and held him tight. He felt her press her lips to his head: she was the only person besides Mist who had ever done so, yet it felt right.

They spoke throughout the rest of the week; he often grew tired of his own story and curious about hers. It was difficult at first to ask about Ashnard. Soren was almost tempted to find Pelleas, and ask how the other young man had felt upon first realizing that such a monster was his father.

But Almedha's telling of the tale was, in a way, more romantically tragic than abjectly painful, and he felt that she shared the story for the same reasons that he did. She had obviously once loved the ambitious Daein prince, and Soren admired her for having stood up to her own father.

Her voice became understandably bitter when she reached Ashnard's dealings with Rajaion, and how one day she had come home to find her child's cradle empty. "After that," she said quietly, looking out the window at the whirling snow, "I don't remember much. I suppose it was just as well Ashnard hid me away. I was insane with sorrow for you and Rajaion, and didn't have any way to escape or to contact my family. In any case, Father wouldn't have let me come home again."

Soren hesitated, wondering a little at his own shyness, then rested his head on her shoulder. "Was that before you had the... what was it called? A sending stone?"

"Yes, long before," she answered, smiling a little. Her hand rose to lightly stroke his hair. "Kurth gave me the stone when Pelleas and I joined the Emancipation Army. That might have been one reason for Father's anger: he didn't want my brother even speaking to me, and Kurth wanted nothing more than to bring me home. But I'm no longer part of the dragon clan. It wouldn't have been possible."

"You're like me," Soren said impulsively, then realized it was almost true. She would never age like other beorc, and while she could no longer transform, she possessed a great deal of magic power—if not channeled, like his own, into the practice of battle.

She was silent for a moment, and as her hand fell away from his face, Soren's heart sank. But Almedha said softly, touching his face, "Yes. In the ways that matter, I am."

* * *

Finally she asked him to continue his own story: Soren managed to get as far as the end of the war against Ashera—quite literally, to the moment he had last spoken to Almedha—but found that he couldn't continue. Something in the back of his mind was warning that if he opened the door to those memories, there would be no stopping the pain: if he searched his memory for anything during those dreadful six weeks, it would all spill out.

His mother placed a hand on his arm. "You don't have to tell me. The way you spoke of this Ike, and the things I've heard from Sothe... if he were alive, he would be here now with you."

Soren clenched his jaw, closing his eyes. Everything would be easier if Ike really had been killed in battle, or succumbed to some lingering disease. It didn't help that Soren had vigorously imagined, during the first long journey into Gallia, various scenes of Ike's demise.

Finally, he said quietly, "Ike isn't dead."

Just to say it was the stab of a knife. There was a silence. "Oh," Almedha said, a little apologetically. He knew her curiosity was aroused, but that she had also been serious: he needn't tell her.

Taking a deep breath, Soren forced himself to speak. "He left Crimea at the end of the summer. I'm not... he didn't tell anyone where he went, but he told Mist that he couldn't stay in Crimea. I'm sure it was beneficial to Elincia: she had enough trouble on her hands without the nobles accusing her of goddess knows what, consorting with peasants or something. Again. They were horrible last time, after Crimea's war with Daein. We, the Mercenaries, sort of hid in the countryside, hoping nothing would happen..."

He felt like he was babbling, and trailed off. Her eyes lowered momentarily, then rose up again to meet his.

Soren needed no words to understand what that gaze asked, but couldn't look at her as he answered. "I... when he left, I tried to kill myself. After six weeks I knew he wasn't coming back, and I thought there was nothing left for me."

She knew his aversion to suffocating physical contact: but, as before, she pulled him to her, obviously unable to stop herself. "Oh, Soren," was all she said, in a voice that made him wonder if she'd tried to do the same thing. Lehran had, after all.

He put his arms around her: the memory was almost more painful than the event itself had been, but he felt no need to cry. A dull anger filled him. Should he say anything about Mist? About Oscar? It had been such an unutterable, startling relief to find that they cared: not just that Mist sympathetically shared his loss, but that they had worried about him for his own sake. Titania had only spoken to him once or twice after he'd tried to take his own life, but her quiet, guilt-ridden tone had made him think she actually felt responsible. He suddenly wished he could talk to her again.

It came to him in a flash. Soren opened his eyes, knowing for the first time what to do next. He pondered it for a moment, almost afraid to speak it aloud. But it didn't become any less ludicrous: in fact, it solidified into a true need.

"I have to go back to Greil's Retreat," he breathed.

It was as if he had struck her. Almedha started away from him, putting her hands on his shoulders. "I've... I've found you, but..." Soren swallowed, unhappy to say it, fearing it would hurt her. "The Mercenaries are my family, too. I have to go back to Crimea."

Her crimson gaze was a little panicked, her eyes searching his face frantically. "No—no, you can't leave!"

"I don't mean alone," Soren said, thinking. He bit his lip, wondering if she would agree, and gripped her hands, steadily holding her gaze. "What else is here for you? Come with me, to Crimea."

Almedha stared at him; he couldn't quite tell if she was horrified, or merely dumbstruck. "Please," Soren continued fervently. He'd never quite felt such a pressing need to _convince_ someone. Even as tactician for the armies, he'd advised the generals (particularly Skrimir) with a 'take it or leave it' approach.

Now, the need to bring Almedha away from Daein seemed almost more important than actually getting to Crimea himself. "Mother... Titania and Mist and the others will take someone in to help, even when he's a stranger, even if there's no reason to t-trust him." He felt the word trip on the end of his tongue, and ignored it. "They would welcome someone they know."

"Trust," she finally said, turning her face away. Soren's breath caught at the bitterness in her tone. "What would it matter if they trusted me or not? Trust has nothing to do with love, and I tell you, they've no reason to love me."

"What about me?" Soren countered. "Who would want to take in a filthy half-breed, an orphan with nothing to give? There was no reason for them to love me. But..." The seriousness of what he was about to say struck him hard in the chest, and he swallowed, sitting back. "But they did. Ike's own sister brought me to my senses, even when she was half-mad with sorrow and anger, too."

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. The winter winds flailed at a nearby window, beating snow against the frosty panes. Even if she did agree, Soren thought glumly, they wouldn't be able to go for another month, at least.

Almedha looked at him once more. To his grief, she removed her hands, set them carefully in her own lap. "I can't even tell you why my heart is saying no," she said quietly, her voice full of misery. "I would tell you if I knew why. It makes no sense. Other than a lingering wish to stay near Pelleas... nothing holds me to this land. Indeed, I should _want_ to leave." Her voice was hypnotizingly soft. "Why can you not stay here?"

Soren almost buckled, just for a moment: but now that the idea had solidified, the little tactician's voice in the back of his head was already making plans. "I feel as if I've betrayed Mist by leaving. I don't have any purpose here, and perhaps she can forgive both Ike and I if at least one of us returns," he answered firmly.

And this time, perhaps he wouldn't arrive half-starved and freezing. He reached out, placed his hands on top of hers. "Mother, I walked here from Goldoa, and I'll walk back to Crimea alone, if that's what it takes." But I beg you... come with me."

Her eyes flickered, up to his and then away again, out into the snowy city. "I will think over it," she said quietly. And in the meantime, Soren read in her tone, perhaps she would try to change his mind. Something in him applauded her firm resolve... exactly as he secretly challenged her to try.


	11. Torn Between Worlds

This is probably somewhat less OOC, but that doesn't necessarily make it better. Next chapter is the epilogue, so just shut up and deal with the sort-of-cliffhanger.

* * *

~~ Chapter 10: Torn Between Worlds ~~

* * *

It was as he'd feared: the winter storms kept up for close to a month, whirling around Nevassa and the surrounding villages with an inhuman ferocity. Everyone hunkered down, houses and castles alike trying to bear the brunt of winter.

Soren tried—he really did—to remain patient with his mother, as the weather forced him to stay. He did not directly mention the subject of leaving, knowing that it pained her: to his great annoyance, she herself continued dropping rather unsubtle comments on the subject. They were merely quotes from beloved Daein leaders, or hints about the generous people and the beauty of the city... but Soren was used to reading subtexts from complete strangers, and he did not appreciate his mother attempting to subtly brainwash him into staying in Daein.

As a consequence, Soren began avoiding her, and began to wander about the castle. The keep was colder and much more dismal than Melior and Begnion, and Soren found himself even more claustrophobic than he'd been at Greil's Retreat.

There were several visitors besides himself who were stuck because of the weather: people he'd met in the Liberation Army and later in the Laguz Alliance, the odd trader or merchant, and plenty of politicians. Soren gave them brief greetings and avoided them as much as possible. While conversation with his mother gave him no trouble, Soren doubted he would ever find socializing with "old friends" to be much fun.

Frankly, he was more interested in climbing up to the rookery, and delving into the basement armories. The soldiers there were terse, but when he introduced himself as a tactician, they proved oddly (if gruffly) open to questions.

One miserably cold afternoon, he had wrapped himself in a cloak and holed up in one of the old, abandoned great halls. He hadn't found the library yet—the Daeins obviously didn't care much for pleasure reading, and Soren didn't quite feel up to memorizing tomes—and was just sitting in one of the high windows, watching knights try to train in a snow-dipped courtyard below. Micaiah had demilitarized the country, and it showed: even in this kind of snow, Soren thought their performance was pretty pathetic.

Abruptly, there were footsteps, and Soren looked around to see Micaiah. Unnerved by her appearing just as he'd thought of her, he started upright, tripped on the cloak, and just barely managed to catch himself before falling on his face.

"Are you all right?" she asked, and giggled in a most unqueenly way, coming forward. "I'm sorry I startled you, but I couldn't escape from Sothe for long. I just have a question."

Soren managed to straighten up, and inclined his head. "Your Majesty. I will answer to the best of my abilities."

She smiled at that, but this time more out of good humor than entertainment. "There is no need for formalities, Soren." Micaiah extended a hand to take his, looking around to make sure they were alone. "Please, I just need to ask a simple question, because I know it is the only way to dispel rumor. Are you here in Daein to claim your birthright?"

Soren immediately understood what she meant, if not implicitly. He had reflected already on what it meant to be the son of a Goldoan princess and a Daein king: but the thought was so distasteful that he hadn't dwelt upon it.

"No," he said, and felt a spasm of disgust come over him, so strong that he almost threw the queen's hand from him. "No, that is not why I came to Daein, let rumor say what it may."

Micaiah's expression softened into regret. "I thought so. I didn't mean to offend you, Soren. It's just... your own sorrows are tied so closely to those of Daein." He had a moment to remember that she was part heron, and she continued, "Sothe made the mistake of mentioning to some that Ashnard's son still lived, and while the senators assumed he meant Pelleas..." Her eyelashes fluttered downwards for a moment, and even he could sense the rest. But the senators would find out who Soren was before long: from Pelleas or Almedha.

She moved even closer, and he could feel his loneliness and irritation fairly melting away. "The rumors may force Pelleas to plead disinterest, but I wanted to hear the words from your lips."

Soren couldn't say anything for a minute, and passed a hand over his face. To think that the lives could hang in the balance merely because he had come to Daein! He wondered briefly how Micaiah had even found him, then remembered her heritage again. "Well," he finally managed to say, holding her gaze, "I am returning to Crimea when the weather breaks."

"With your mother?" she asked softly.

After a moment, Soren shook his head; even as a blood-given talent, her insight was startling. "Much to my regret... she does not wish to come."

Micaiah bowed her head. "I am sorry." At last, she let go of his hand; he realized how small she was. The queen of Daein was barely Mist's height, and she would certainly stay that size until long after Mist died. "I must go. Sothe will find me in a few moments." She leaned forward to kiss his cheek, and with that disappeared as quickly as she had come.

Soren stared after her; the stone hall was only as empty as it had been before, but for some reason he felt a need to flee. As he strode quickly out, making his way down a narrow circular stairwell, he hoped Micaiah would have no trouble extinguishing such a dangerous rumor. He knew, from having spent time in their midst, that the Daein people loved her as they'd never loved another royal leader. Yet it wasn't hard to imagine a few mad nobles coming forth to demand that she turn the throne over to the true heir of Daein.

He shuddered, quickening his pace down the steps. He could think of nothing more horrifying than to inherit a country.

* * *

Soren didn't discover the library until a few days later, when the weather finally began to clear. It wasn't nearly as impressive as the library in Sienne, but Soren had expected as much: and truthfully, it was a larger library than he himself would ever require.

He wandered through the shelves, wondering if there was even anything here to be interested in. The books ranged over every topic, from sharecropping to creating gems to spells. In the past, he would simply have chosen a book at random and found a large chair to curl up in, able and willing to read any subject.

But just now, Soren had no interest in reading something factual: he searched for something escapist and utterly unrealistic. There it was—a book of children's fairy tales, the cover painted with gnomes and trolls. The goddesses only knew how the book had arrived in the Nevassa library. Perhaps Almedha herself had placed it there, in anticipation of her own children.

Soren tucked himself into the window seat and opened the book, glad to see rain sliding down the glass. It was mostly pictures; he'd never owned a book like this as a child, although he distinctly remembered Mist having carried one around when she was small. He turned the page, and the trolls gave way to sprites and fairies, dancing their way across the page.

What he wouldn't give to sit in his mother's lap and have her read this to him... Soren had to smile at the thought, as the image drove away his melancholy. Diminutive as he was, sitting on her lap would look ridiculous.

He tipped his head back, looking out at the rain, and reflected further that, despite how he'd longed to find her, his mother was not all he'd hoped for. Perhaps, Soren thought, now that he had actually discovered _who_ his parents were, and had spent some time with his mother... there was no need to linger. The knowledge itself was what he had sought.

He winced a little at the thought. How could he be so cruel? Bitterly, he thought that leaving for Crimea probably wasn't all about getting back to Mist: there was something characteristically cold about abandoning his mother like this.

"I should have known I'd find you in a library," said a dry voice quite nearby.

The book in his lap suddenly seemed to be made of stone. Soren froze, closing his eyes; he hadn't heard any footsteps, but knew who it was instantly. That voice haunted his dreams, tortured him whenever the world became too quiet. He couldn't speak to answer, or even move. Yet some instinctual anger suddenly rose up, a fury possessing him like fire coursing over his limbs.

He whirled and threw the book, instinctually aiming high. There was an exclamation of "_Ow_!"

Soren opened his eyes to see Ike, bending over a bit and clapping a hand to his face. He wondered if he was going to faint. No, that was Ike all right: no ghost stood before him, just a living man wrapped in a muddy red cloak.

The brief wish to have a dagger in his hand passed through Soren's mind, but swiftly faded. He didn't have any idea what to say, and rose from the window seat, feeling an urge to melt into the floor. Why had he done that? Why was Ike _here_?

Ike straightened and took his hand away from his nose: his fingers were stained with blood. "I guess I deserved that," he said wryly. Soren realized, with a jolt of fury, that the other young man was grinning. "Although it's probably giving you too much credit to say you knew it was me."

"Don't be a fool. I knew. And if I had another book, I'd throw it again," Soren said coldly.

He turned his back on Ike and walked out of the library, feeling his heart race and his breath come short. After all this time... all the _longing_... he suddenly felt a need to be as far away from Ike as possible.

The other young man had no such notions. "Hey, come on!" Soren heard footsteps behind him, and a hand on his arm.

He whirled, yanking away, and fled, his mind going blank. Several weeks of good food and relaxation had given him his strength back, and he knew the castle better than Ike. "Soren!" he heard the young man shout behind him, and ran faster.

Tears forced themselves from his eyes; he ran blindly, with no idea of where he was going, why he was running, or what he would do when he finally... what? Escaped? Why was he trying to escape from Ike, the person he loved more than anyone else in the world?

He found himself stopping suddenly, and realized that his feet had carried him back to his own chambers, the rooms that adjoined Almedha's. One balcony door was loose, and he strode mindlessly to it, latching the doors shut. Soren closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cold panes. _Think! Think!_

He heard Ike skid to a halt behind him, but couldn't force himself to turn. He could hear Ike's panting, that familiar irritated, yet amused exhalation of energy.

Even Ike's expression was easy to imagine, as the young man demanded bemusedly, "Soren... what? Why did you... run like that? I just want to talk to you.

Soren heard the soft footsteps crossing the rug, sinking into the rich plush of the furs. Then Ike's hand was on his shoulder. "Soren..."

His tongue loosed, and he yanked his arm away for the second time, putting his back to the balcony, glaring daggers. "Get away from me! How can you even—" Soren felt himself choke on the words, especially as Ike's face fell into an expression of pathetically pitiable guilt.

He wished irrationally that he were at Greil's Retreat, with Mist behind him: he wanted to scream _Do you know what you did to us? To me?_ Finally, under control, he demanded, "Why are you even here?"

"Well..." Ike's brow furrowed, his strongly-cut features puzzled as his gaze searched Soren's face. He was still holding the fairy-tale book, its spine ever so faintly stained with red. "I was in Hatari for a while, and Rafiel wanted me to carry a message to Micaiah. I found her with Pelleas, and he told me you were here."

It was, of course, a straightforward, uncomplicated answer that revealed absolutely nothing about motive or emotion. That was simply typical of Ike, Soren thought furiously. He never bothered to explain his feelings, since they were so instinctual and untroubled that there was no need. Next he was going to ask—

"So you. Why are you in Nevassa?" Ike asked.

Soren wanted to scream. He wanted to yank the book from Ike's hands and beat him into a small puddle of goo. He felt his hands trembling.

His face must have looked dangerous, because the other young man hastily added, "Okay, okay. I asked where you were because I wanted to tell you something, too. I feel like leaving home with nothing but a letter to tell you guys why I left was kind of... well, I could have done it better, that's all. But I just wanted to ensure that Crimea stayed stable, unlike last time. So I just wanted to ap—"

"Wait, _what_?" Soren said, interrupting. "You..." He stared at Ike, the anger abating momentarily in confusion. Outside, the wind howled, and a gust of rain rattled the stained-glass windows. In Soren's experience, Ike had never misremembered something so important: and his face was so earnestly pained that the tactician couldn't possibly imagine that his erstwhile friend was lying.

His confusion seemed to be mirrored in Ike's expression. "I what?" the young man asked. He waited, but Soren couldn't make himself ask the question yet. "Soren, I _what_? I was about to apologize. I expected you to follow me, but I guess you were mad..."

"Follow you where?" Soren demanded. All the words he'd wanted to say to Ike in the last year were welling up; furiously he tried to repress them. It wasn't time yet. "You never left any letter, we didn't know where you went, I would have followed you even if I was angry, you stupid..."

The anger roared back through him, and he shouted, "You stupid son of a _bitch!_ I tried to _kill_ myself, Ike! Your sister found me in a pool of my own blood! Didn't you know how you betrayed us, leaving without so much as an explanation!"

He bit his lip, turning his head, breath hissing quickly. That was enough for now. The figure before him was so still that for a moment, Soren though Ike wasn't even listening.

At last, "You... oh, Soren." It was almost the same tone his mother had used: grief-stricken but somehow without the condescending pity he would have so detested.

Ike moved toward him. "Soren, I swear I left a letter with the innkeeper in town. He promised to deliver it the day after I left. I never would have..." Soren couldn't force himself to move away, and could feel the other man's warmth, beating out from underneath his muddy cloak. "I _never_ would have left you like that. I know that's not the point, but..."

When Ike's hand came up to grasp Soren's arm, this time the tactician didn't shake it off. There was no reason not to believe him. "You really tried to...?" Ike asked, and when Soren looked up, that blue gaze was unnaturally unsteady.

A sudden shame filled him, inexplicable and intense. He moved his lips, but no words came at first; finally, he swallowed, head bowed, and said quietly, "You were the only person I knew how to love, Ike. I didn't realize how stupid that was until you'd already gone."

"Oh, Soren," Ike said again, his voice sorrowful and heavy with guilt. His grasp on Soren's arm tightened, and he moved suddenly, as if to embrace the tactician. His thumbs were against the scars carved so many weeks ago by the knife, but Soren didn't care. He couldn't look away from Ike's eyes, that intense and earnest blue, dark as the ocean.

There was a gasp, and Ike turned, moving enough that Soren could see his mother, standing in the doorway with both hands over her mouth. _Oh, no,_ he thought dully.

"Soren!" she exclaimed, and dashed to his side. Of all the days in his life, Soren thought, this was the one in which his name had been exclaimed the most, and he was getting somewhat tired of being fussed over. "Oh, my sweet!"

She put her hands on his shoulders; he felt, rather than saw, her unsubtle glare at Ike. "What do _you_ want here?" she snapped, more rudely than he'd ever heard her speak to another person.

Ike's blue eyes stilled, as if a wind had passed over them, leaving nary a ripple. "I am here to speak with Soren. Forgive me—my greetings, Lady Almedha." He made a short and rather uncharacteristically political bow. His tone, in the first sentence, had carried an intonation: _What else would I be doing here_? It was without doubt a tone of great exasperation.

Almedha swallowed; her hands tightened on his shoulders. Soren mentally sighed. In a moment he was going to have to say something extremely unpleasant.

"You—you are not wanted," she said, but uncertainly. "Isn't that right, Soren?"

Ike's eyes were fixed on him; Soren was elated to find that he could still read the other young man's expression. He suddenly wondered how far Ike had traveled before reaching Daein: Soren hadn't even thought to ask. His cloak was, as usual, mud-stained, but the leather thongs that held on his armor looked more worn than ever before, and his hair was getting unusually long, drooping down over his eyes.

Reaching up for his mother's hands, Soren turned to her. Almedha's eyes were frightened, panicked. "Mother," he said quietly. "You know I must go back to Crimea. Will you go with us?"

With some satisfaction, he heard Ike start. She tilted her head, tears welling in her eyes as she uncertainly tried to decide if he was serious. "I... but..." Almedha tried to pull him to her, but he resisted. She put her hands over her face again, weeping. "But what would I _do_? I cannot—please don't ask me!"

Soren looked up at Ike again; and in that moment, he knew—just as he'd known that he had to return to Crimea—that with enough time, with more explanation and a few uncomfortable confessions, he might be able to forgive the young man standing patiently before him.

He hadn't felt such heartbreaking relief since Mist came to his bedside, offering to be his sister. It was enough to almost make him... _not care_ what Almedha did.

But he managed to remind himself that, however overprotective she was acting now, she had brought him through that first day in Daein, when he may well have died. And she was still his mother.

Soren put his arms around her, allowed her to embrace him in that smothering fashion he still detested. "Mother," he said again, and waited until her sniffling tapered down. "I found you, and that is... that is why I came all this way. And for all that you've done for me, I cannot thank you enough. But..."

He pulled her hands away from her face, wishing he could love her the same way he loved Ike. Tears still streamed from her eyes, and now she just looked desperate and miserable. "Wherever you are, you will still be my mother. Come home with me."


End file.
